S. B. Merrow

By August, we yearned for
something new -- a corona,
flares to rekindle hope, banana-
shaped visions, another decade.

Truckers pulled off the highway
to watch the haunting shadows.
Beyond the shoulder, golfers
stopped playing their game.

A woman from California
gave us special glasses and
talked about her dying father,
how moving home would mean

divorce. She declared the event
over before it was. We walked
a woodsy path sprinkled with
sun-sickles, the grating cicadas

mute. Farther south, it turned
dark -- whippoorwhills woke
and sang as if morning would
never come. Then, across the country,

the brief night of totality passed.
Back in our parallel lanes,
we marvel at the speed
of disappearing dreams.