Scenes from Interstate 280

I.
At 70 miles an hour
I can swallow the torrent
of mountains and trees
and not spill
a single drop

II.
The pasture rolls and tumbles
and crashes into my face
like a wave that carries
in its wake a few grazing cattle
and a giant satellite dish
that is too big
for my shell collection

III.
The sun sits
like an old-timer
on the tops of
the Santa Cruz mountains
and blows clouds of
rust-colored smoke
as he dips
his tired legs
in the silver lake

and watches the trail
of ants on their
weary journey home
at 70 miles an hour

IV.
A herd of clouds stand
grazing at the tops
of the mountains
Evening comes
and they lumber
across the freeway
to where I do not know
but I’m sure as hell not
stopping for them