While Driving to the Airport

The light shifted
across Bethany Lane
Providing the illusion
the bridge had collapsed

Vines hike up the brick
finding handholds in cracked stone
as if trying to bring it down
“Timber!” They call.

The bridge stays upright.

Perhaps the streetlights hold
the dreams of ivy overgrown
They cannot tell them to passing cars
so the light
in its kindness
projects visions onto our windshields

and in the viewing screen
We watch Bethany Lane

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