There is this solitude that doesn’t quite mask

The sounds of the concrete monolith of 5-lane freeway, of major airlines fucking up the carbon footprint 

But

If you sit still here on this bench in an 87 degree Texas autumn, you can hear leaves rustle and a jay screaming his name 

Poodle people walk past, cyclists and an elderly woman with walking sticks as I’m mildly assaulted by a mosquito 

I wait here to see if you’ll show – you’ve been here before in a thousand forms 

I know if I look too long or too hard, I’ll come up with nothing

Then 

Coyotes howl 

A crow caws 

A roadrunner sits on a post, posing

This land is a hellscape except for here; except for you.

Your bones are buried near but all I ever find on these paths are echos of your whispers to me, almost 20 years ago, 

Asking where I’m trying to go

Surprise.  I still don’t know.