other than hoot owls,
fireflies, critters on the prowl.
The town bell marks the passing
of every hour, day and night.
From the highway two miles outside of town
the pounding pulse of a Harley at cruise
fills the pastoral facade,
a crescendo of intake, compression,
power of a hundred horses
overtakes the stillness
and troubles some who were asleep,
inspires wanderlust in others
and as the blast of its exhaust fades
in deference to the song
of crickets in the fields
and coyotes on the hill,
a sleepless poet
where it might be from,
why it is going
up route 202
at this late hour.