the long shadows of a late March afternoon
drape themselves across the highway
like discarded pairs of stockings
lightly covering the graveled brim of road
and extending out until just touching the wheels of the cars
but never rustle at their passing.
filigreed tips of the trees stretch into sky,
blue giving away hints of the hazy pastel of evening
soon to settle.
and a bare stretch of interstate overpass
empty to the right and left
but for a white wooden sign, “Bob & Lois’s Diner,”
a thin, red wagon wheel,
and a dusty black pickup truck in the lot.
we take the large 8-top by the window,
orders of grilled cheeseburgers, slaw, and fries all around
and settle in for our family meal.
stories are told, laughs are laughed, and voices mimicked.
stories of new puppies oohed and aahed
as evening creeps forward
and the folks of Corinth come and go
after their supper eaten on the way home
after work, still in their work clothes.
we make our way home
guided by a full moon to the east
and drift over the hills into home, and Clifton
as into a Rousseau painting;
the moon echoing the patterns made by the gaslights.