When the dirt road dips suddenly downward,
diving like a teenager to the floor of the lake,
the scrape of gravel against gravel
erupting with your every foot fall,
the rind of bright orange eye-level now,
on the verge of disappearing,
dancing on the border
between dusk and fully formed night,
you may find yourself, yielding, unresistant
to the intensifying gravity;
you may feel compelled to turn off your wavering light
and greet the looming shadows of pine trees merging,
roots above your head now,
blotting out the stars as you continue
descending into loon calls (agony rising)
descending into the desperate tree frog crescendo,
descending into that place inside your own bones
where your lifeblood is made–hollow, raw,
vibrating for maybe just a moment longer.