Driving on a Backroad at Dusk
May 22 2009


If I could, I’d slip the belt off,
press my face to the glass
crane my neck skyward.
Or peel the roof back,
a jagged lethal lid.

Just as dusk descends,
magically lit
from over the planet’s curve.
When the sky is too immense
to be satisfied,
peering through this slit
of safety glass
— my neck crimped,
the view, misting up.
When its luminous blue deepens
and the surface dims,
flat and featureless.
And the distant hills
are paper cut-outs,
dark against the light.

I feel so small
down here
at the bottom of this ocean of air,
heavy, earthbound.
Standing on a gravel shoulder, looking up
at cornflower, azure, cobalt,
then baltic, violet-black.
And then transparent,
as if the air had boiled-off
— a blanket lifted,
the cosmos suddenly clear.

When the first star appears;
the sky now midnight black,
the softly glowing land.



Self-explanatory. At least it is to those who are privileged enough to live out in the country, far from downtowns and suburban sprawl. Where you can really see the sky -- unobstructed by buildings, unpolluted by artificial light.

On a cloudless day, when there is no humidity in the air, there is this quality of light at dusk that is utterly compelling. The sky is illuminated, the surface recedes, and you can't keep your eyes off it. You can feel the cold air descend as you watch. The sky seems immense. It goes through every shade of blue imaginable, and you wonder if there are names for them all. But by the time the first star appears, it's almost over: the sky will soon turn black and disappear; the land will re-emerge.

You're usually driving when this happens. You feel constricted blinkered blind, trying to see out. You want to peel the roof back. ...More practical, though, to stop and get out!