Pricilla Atkins


Country: United States
Language(s): English

Driving to Cincinnati

Sunday fog shrouding the passing fields,
a triangle of red reflector tape
suddenly floats, unattached, on the road
in front of me, until the black rhythm
of hooves, the erect rectangle of a carriage
corporealize into sounds and shapes pulled
from a night stable. Farther on, tethered
to twelve silent buggies, a ghostly farmhouse
wavers in the mist; I imagine men, women,
children, in dark clothes, lined up on hard
benches, the black and white of hymnals,
the O’s of their mouths offering up circles
of sound that travel on thin threads
out to the patient horses in their blinders,
the circumspect leaves, a flock
of morning-lit clouds orbiting the trees.