Coming Home

My window fogs as we roll
through puddles and primordial mist
down the endless Atlanta tarmac
to the furthest perch in the terminal.

Our packed cabin disgorges the bleary
to the eternal tide of strangers
ebbing down the concourse,
all drawn toward home.

I lug a week’s worth of laundry,
small soaps and assorted toiletries
across a vast concrete car-scape
to the last long-term lot.

The way out is wide open.
Soon the city lights fade
in my rearview mirror. Silent
lightning paints the blackened horizon

 
like a short-circuiting strobe
as I push east, deep into Georgia.
I steer through sleepy towns.
At the ragged edge of midnight

I skirt a deserted campus
and turn down familiar streets.
A dripping redbud arches low
over my darkened driveway.

I cut the engine and pause
as the rhythmic hymn of katydids
and the rasping peep of tree frogs
wash my travel-wracked body.

I hear the soft call of a barred owl
haunt the high limbs of a dying oak
down by the river. My skin tingles
and the bones of my soul sigh, home.

More poems of August:

Jurassic Dreams and Katydids

Weeds Have Names

Awaiting Passage into Fall