Driving toward Dundas
midnight slides at a steady crawl
across the star-tipped landscape.
Highway eight follows hill and curve,
rise and fall, the contours
of an almost alien countryside.
We ride soothed by the wheels
whispering against pavement.
Solid white lines border the road,
define the edges of the headlights' beams.
Without gravity, it would be so easy,
too easy to push down the foot,
pull back on the wheel and rise
in a parabolic curve, turn left
at the moon into the spell of inifinity.
The force that rules darkness demands
a heavy foot, a higher pitched song
from wheels and engine,
promises danger and adrenaline.
We muffle the call with measured breathing,
scraps of innocuous conversation,
focus on the arrival moments ahead.