Driving switchbacks on Shenandoah’s spine,
dipping into valleys and screaming up again,
we scorch speed warnings from yellow diamonds
as the dashboard Garmin’s destination time
spins backwards. We’re regaining invisible minutes
that would have languished on a longer voyage,
one that slowed to marvel at purple splashes
of ironweed and white tassels of sweetspire
or braked to heed warnings of falling rocks.
The cerulean sky has tumbled other sarsens
in our path, and instead of ringing them
in monuments, we have taken to the road,
racing time itself, arms stretched out windows,
splayed fingers clawing the howling wind.
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