Dear Happenstance
Last night I dreamed you
lost as an old shoe lying,
strings untied, on the macadam.
I’m speeding down the road,
and you are everywhere I look:
brushy bluestem, thick with abandon.
Dented mailbox, gravel drive,
fake flowers nailed
to the tree trunk at the curve.
A flock of small birds
darkens with synchronized turning.
Silvers, veering back again.