Our old truck’s radio crackled the Blue Danube
Waltz as the blacktop dissolved and gravel rushed to
replace it. The susurrus of the truck’s tires matched
the station’s stutter and as we stared through the glass
of the windshield, we wondered if the streaks of our
hoped-for meteors weren’t a form of interstellar
static, white flickers on the night sky’s screen.
*The draft of this poem is from before Lily’s birth.*