I drive west from White Sulphur Springs
in my black and bruised 2005 Silverado
model 2500 4x4 Heavy Duty
up 7% grades hauls easily 20,000 pounds with a trailer
62 miles per hour now in late autumn rain
episodic drizzle intermittent deluge
tight squeaks as rubber wipers struggle
whack <scrape> | whack <scrape> | whack <scrape>
against sheets of water on the front windshield
I64 traffic sporadic
diesel 18-wheeler tires fling plumes of spray
splash my truck
| This Appalachian rain forest! | This ocean of wet! |
and coupés flit like deranged gnits on slick asphalt
driving faster than their lights
risk hydroplaning
sun and blue sky are visible only from aircraft flying high
above the roof of dark clouds
sprawl here to Ohio from whence they come
pinned to our mountains by leafless trees
half-way down
set a dense mist upon the ground
limit visibility to 50 yards
immerse us in gray and damp
Out of all that fades
something beneath emerges into focus
as a magnet gathers iron filings in field force lines
a Faraday moment of driving
brusque gravel throat of the Grabber 10 ply tires
inflated to 80psi hard on the road
thud and rattle of the chassis on bumps
and Interstate concrete pavement separation
shum of the AC fan defogging the inside windshield
mild strain on my right ankle
near the accelerator pedal covering the brake
my hands at 4 and 8
motor oil scented warmth
my eyes canvass the dash gauge lights
cab and exterior mirrors
my pleasure sporadically interrupted
by unfelt rushes of adrenaline
as defensively I adjust the truck’s motion
account for the inventory of vehicles moving around me
Now I can’t think
mechanical stresses from the truck’s forward tumult
yank at reason
rip rationality away
from the rusted steel
all that is false and dross
drips off
is lost
in the highway scene
time as in a dream stops
Images of prophesy flood the cab
I am with Ralph Waldo
in his farm home by the bridge
he tugs apart a Chrysanthemum
pulls off pink ray and red disc florets
stigma anther ovary style and filament
passes the denuded flower bulb to me
I gaze into it
is the name of the flower there
no sound no word no motion
I feel nothing
see nothing
smell not perfume of the plant or its moist earth
yet I know without knowing
before massy hard atoms congeal
in their swirling relativity create space and time
presence
has always been there
Ralph Waldo is wrong
it has no name
Ron Tobey grew up in north New Hampshire, USA, and attended the University of New Hampshire, Durham. He farms in West Virginia. He writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. As an imagist poet, he expresses experiences and moods in concrete descriptions in haiku, lyrical poetry storytelling, audio poetry, and in filmic interpretation. Ron has published widely in poetry journals. He was a finalist in Cleaver Magazine 40th Anniversary Flash Fiction Contest. Ron is active on X @Turin54024117
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