Boundaries

A Land Without Boundaries…



There is a stretch of Interstate 85 that reeks of dog food
the concrete slab factory interrupting the skeletal black of the trees.

I beat the sun to dawn; savor the twilight, the openness
rain-slicken road invites me to keep moving forward

I don’t need the invitation, never have. I am wired:
antsy; muscles coiling and uncoiling, waiting for movement—to pounce
waiting for the space to run.