I think she wants to talk
about the browning trees along this road,
or of the patches of yellow grass
in each field we pass.
She begins to notice things out loud -
like the swampy bogs eructing
in rippling plumes of gas,
and the corpse of a house cat
crushed against a furrow on the edge of the road.
I want to avoid this conversation -
with her on the seat next to me,
I drive faster -
but we will not escape the words
she is compelled to speak:
of dying things, things already dead,
and us.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Gorgeous, Scott. Congrats on the gold, my Friend. 
