Jim

The country road 

too north for the trees to

show their green mist,

he had the radio on,

bluegrass,

a map gone ragged

along its folds,

headed for some fishing

with nothing

but time.

He loved the back roads,

gravel kicked up on the turns,

the way the land rolled

from hardwood to hill,

cigarette tasted just fine,

his buddy driving on through.

He never even saw it coming,

the other car that had the right of it.

He wondered why

the cardinal had sounded

so clear that morning,

pulling the spring with its call, and

he flew out the shattered windows

after its red song.