The summer air
is alive, sounds of
wind and insects,
a nocturnal chorus
keeping some rhythm
that I cannot count.
The road crackles
under my tires as I drive
slowly to the ski center—
to put off meeting the parents
at their lakeside cabin.
I park, engine running,
the Grateful Dead on tape
spilling out the open windows
with their chrome edges,
my cotton poncho for
the August mountain chill.
I lie back on the warm, long
hood of the Mustang,
a car older than me—
The engine’s gentle hum,
its welcome heat, the music,
stars overhead like they’ve
been waiting for me.
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