on the road, as if the sky had cracked.
Perhaps the dude with the weed-whacker
whacked it. Perhaps some Flying Scot,
in tow, flew from its trailer,
bow up, into a bank of clouds.
Everything changes here, molecule by minute
by man. Cars take the road
from here to there. Seasonally,
vegetable stands crop up, flourish,
vanish. The Maryland sun
moves shadows of the gravel
as the gravel wanders.
but the blacktop, and even the blacktop
in some cataclysm of fear