pure. riveting.

undeniable as it is cliche.

voice beseeching the timeless sky.

a soliloquy agonized of beckoning—filled with wanting.

3, 4, 5, engines.

containers stacked 2 and 3 high.

a mile of wheel bearings and couplings churn out

the rhythm loop: wuthawunk-wuthawunk-wuthawunk-wuthawunk…

breathless listening.

pitch shifting with the weight

and yaw of the load. in the predawn gray

a distant freighter calls out. its first two pleadings each

answered by

a single yip and a howl.

the long dopplering third echoed by

coyote song. a duet in counterpoint—paired forlorn elasticity of sound.

and then silence.

each maestro unanswered

in their yearning. unimaginable how

that must feel. points out to me all I can never know about loneliness.

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