from Bus North Rural night—the lights off in the distance glint like forsythia petals scattered in a parking lot. Anticipation is an act of perception. * This road, an erasure only keeping the spaces between every word blacked out * A brush of cloud annotates the empty sky, less color than blue, drawing a bird to parse the field’s scratched margins. * Image of this floating world: sky like rippled water, clouds leveling mountains—below in shadow, thousands of thickening black fields: nothing if not asphalt— half of everywhere a road or parking lot * Distance is a measurement of time. * Morning—an afternoon cloudlessness already encompassing the treeline; cattle compacted together, pluralize the shade. Seth My friend is a sycamore. Mornings, his branches disperse leaves, which are pinned to mud by needles, held in place with brown tape.