Sun coming up full in the rearview mirror, traveling through Hope,

                   Liberty, Palermo, South China, West Paris, kids along the road,

                   standing around, kicking stones, sunrise on their faces,

            Myself crisscrossing the state, heading for classrooms of these same

                   young lights of Portland, Caribou, Jackman, Monhegan, Lubec.

             Lucky man, I tell myself, no joining the dots, no filling spaces

                   on other people's clocks.

             I'm a lucky man, afoot with a vision, tooling along, stereo tuned

                   and balanced, the spring highway turning to black gold.

             Now a red-tailed hawk, another—three! arpeggios of lift, brothers

                   of morning, I salute you, this green moment

                   and surrounding mountains our only nest.

             Three hundred horses, Percherons of pistons and fire running

                    at breakneck, and I have them by the wheel,

              Saddlebags stuffed with poems, Walt Whitman beside me

                    on the front seat, windows wide open, sunup and stars

                    blowing out of his beard, and Yes!

               Morning laughs for us, the open road spinning our wheels,

                    we're the big Earth and together lean on the horn, sounding

                    our barbaric honk and yahonk!

                                                                                                  from Brothers of Morning
                                                                                                  Copyright © 2002 Martin Steingesser