Highways have no beauty in heat of summer:
the road flattens and grass lies thirsty by the way.
Nothing to see (the asphalt carpet rolls through nowhere fast),
we dream of nothing but our pedestrian destinations.
Should someone tell the day that new light might dawn
across a languid, surprised hill, it would chuckle.
And so the road stays nonchalant, all drivers casting off the glare
of sun that blinds from sun, and day
which blinds from truest Day.
