Here at the bottom of the hollow
it is twilight dark at noon.
The redwoods rise, Manhattan office towers
crowding everything into shadow.
This is the spot someone considered forgettable.
Radials, bias plies—some still with rims—
even one beer keg,
rolled like suicides from a cliff.
The tires got the better end of the deal.
Shielded from the blue of the sky, surrounded
by the brunette locks of pine duff, emerald ferns
and carboned rubber, the world pauses,
free from cell phones, to-dos, even regret.
I rarely linger.
The way back
demands like the mouth of a baby.
This time I sit. The silence
settles over me.