These Things

Late at night on a country road
when the world contracts
to the shell of a car
and the dashboard light,
what counts? Small things…
like the road itself, reaching out,
with nothing behind, nothing ahead
beyond the space
that the headlights show.

The steady blip of a plane that
makes its way across the navy dome
above, and a tiny flash of comet-light.
A bat, drawn by the scent of
blossom out there in the dark –
and one pale feathered blur
on wider wings. Small things.

A streak of fox that headlights
bleach to white; a wallaby,
uncertain at the edge of sight,
and your hand lightly on my thigh.
Late at night on a country road
there are only these things.