Down I-90 across Montana,
miles and miles of nowhere
to pee, seventy-five mile an hour
sagebrush, and suddenly a bird
who can fly that fast.
Like the lady in the pickup,
who won’t let you pass,
casually looking ahead as if
there is no game of acceleration
soaring down both lanes, you swear
you catch a glance of yellow eyes.
(And all those warnings about the tongue being uncontrollable. Oh never mind.)