The Res 1 [V1]

leaving the oily black smell of the city behind
as a silhouettes against a setting sun
and blurred by exhaust
we leave for the reservation
with windows wide
in search of cheap cigarettes and cheap inspiration

wind blowing through our loose summer clothes
creating ripples in soft flowing fabric
the rush dissipates the warmth that clings to our bodies
from the thick stagnant air of the room
and carries whispers of nature on it

smells of moist orange earth flood the car
as the cityscape opens up to vast fields
and wet mossy rocks as we cross the
feeble wood of a rotting bridge over a quiet stream
that cuts through red bedrock

your hands leave the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
you hold it between your lips a moment
before igniting the air with smoke that quickly escapes
out the window and drifts up through the pines
the car quivers rhythmically for miles as you take each drag

we reached the res at dusk and got cigarettes
then turned to leave with the suspended glow of day receding in front of us
dark brought on the cold and we rolled up the windows
we watched the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the hum of the engine and breathing

so many cars on the way back had their lights on
and so many did not