Stopping would name
what was done.
Trees lean inward,
their branches
still holding night,
preparing
to let go.
Above, the sky loosens
into blue
thinned
with pink ash.
I keep driving.
A line of light
runs past me
along the guardrail
in the opposite direction.
The road curves,
and the fields begin
to open.
The dark keeps pace,
waiting
in the long spaces—
unbroken
by mile markers.
About the Author: Jacob Friesenhahn is the author of the poetry collection The Prayer of the Mantis (Kelsay Books, 2025). This poem appears here for the first time.