This Far Country Road When last I trod this far country highway, in summer's mosquito heat, the deer flies chomping at the bit(e) amid a world of green blood pulsing through the heart of things and golden apples vying to be declared the most tart, it lay encircled practically tail in mouth on shimmering asphalt. Holding itself together on the roadside. A mirage of silver and brown scales, proud of its tubular dimensions, a portrait of stillness like a series of chevrons laid out in the noonday sun. And now, the winds scouring the earth clean in a swirl of leaves and plastic bottles, the sun so low on the horizon one wonders how it can rise again, and only the rattle of loose windows left to mimic a natural sound, the hope stirs in a cold chest that last summer’s mirage is found snug in its burrow, pulsing with warm dreams. And that, come the tickle of melting snow, it will once more rise, make its way towards that man-made surface and enfold itself in an effort to embrace the world as one. Pleased with myself for such a conceit, and preparing for even loftier ones, only then do I notice the swerve of remnant tire marks. And, at my feet, the circular imprint in the macadam.