Driving northwest in July before
the long twilight that stretches into
the short summer dark, despite the sun 
the temperature is dropping, air
slips by the truck, like diving, 
diving, and you are almost blind
with light: on either side of you
it floats across the fields, young barley
picking up the gold, oats white,
the cloudy bruise of alfalfa
along the fencelines, the air itself
tawny with haydust, and the shadows of the willows 
in the draw miles long, oh it is lovely
as a myth, the touch of a hand on your hair,
and you need, like sleep, to lie down now
and rest, but you are almost
blind with light, the highway
stretched across the continent
straight at the sun: visor,
dark glasses, useless against its gonging,
the cab drowns in it, shuddering, you cannot tell, 
you might be bleeding or suffocating, shapes
fly out of it so fast there’s no time to swerve:
but there is no other path, there is no other bed,
it is the only way home you know.