It’s where you think you’ll stop—
a smallish town. Houses with porches
that seem like promise.
The two of you will cruise through
in an afternoon, and the café
will serve coffee sweet with hot milk.
The chairs feel familiar, the tables
impossibly smooth. Floors
will creak like home. When you walk back
to the truck, you’ll see a single hawk
on a light post and say, “Luck.”
And firs on a mountain ridge
with silhouettes of couples dancing:
you imagine they’ll never change.
Causes Amy MacLennan Supports
Chautauqua Poets & Writers
Oregon Poetry Association