Highway trucks beat
a rhythm of road.
Red lights press and release
like arteries pulsing.
Steady and long, full and heavy.
Songs of travel spin the blacktop;
miles behind lay thin and pressed.
Rolling behemoths, like buffalos
cresting hills, feverishly running
corners and flats.
Kings of the road. Soldiers scripted
to find their place,
somewhere up ahead.
Roger Singer 