Leonids, NM 14
Out here, the highway strip affords little
guidance, so deeply does night clutch
the desert. It's cold. The press
of the truck hood coaxes skin numb
beneath denim, but it's the best
place to stare straight
they are, thousands an hour, errant
motes blasted though the higher
spheres, bloomed out like the tail-
feathers of a great bird, and so fast.
There's no use in counting, but still
you'll not be satisfied
with this: many.
This is the peak. Come dawn,
you'll be home, yet brimming
with shower-glare, the world
a touch heavier for its passage.
Gwen Wille lives and works in West Chester, PA. She studied writing at the University of New Mexico. Her writing has appeared in Crow Toes Quarterly, Philadelphia Stories, Kerouac's Dog, and others, and is forthcoming in The San Pedro River Review.