Radio off, we drive in silence 

She beside me, we listen to cricket gossip 

I, driving, write this poem: 

The Kerhonkson roads have a smell in late summer 

At 62 Farenheit, and 70% humidity, 

They smell of old wood houses and 

wet green roadsides 

ancient trees with porous bark 

Occasionally, skunk (a smell I like.) 

My t-shirt sleeve grows wet by the open window, and 

slow motion moths change direction before the windshield 

white wings blue in dashboard light

We round a bend where 3 local boys died 

truck split in half on a telephone pole

(the newest ghosts of Samsonville Road) 

I hold the wheel a little tighter, we're almost home

"There's a pickup behind us, better signal early, so he doesn't rear end us" -my practical wife pulls me out of my own head 

Inside now,  "remember to put the ice cream away before you sit down to write" she says as she disappears down the hall.