How often driving down those roads
we hoped we wouldn’t hit something,
the goats we’d passed that morning
herded by that hour so the jackals
wouldn’t make quick work of them,
red yolk rupturing over peaks
as we raced the light down the mountain.
Only once did a boar burst out of the woods
like a question just as soon retracted.
Then we were alone again with everything
we didn’t say, the wind farms winding
their great arms through nothing,
turning from a place too far to hear.
Maya C. Popa is the author of the collection Wound Is the Origin of Wonder and the chapbook Dear Life.