Graze the highway, and mountains range, like clouds,
On the road’s sides. They let go, one by one. Turn around
And they let go again. That’s the easy part.
Look at your sister’s face. Turn a dirt road into the trees.
No mountains without trees. No trees without hills, here.
Listen to the radio until the fine stream of sound clouds back to static,
Listen to the tires and the ribbon of road, together, spit rock
Taper into trail, woods edging closer each meter driven,
Branches brushing against the van in chalkboard warning.
Drive this road like a throat trying hard to swallow. Keep driving,
And it will open onto your postcard—