Thursday, September 17, 2009
Driving Toward the Lac Qui Parle River
Photograph by Philip Wessells
Driving toward the Lac Qui Parle River
I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota.
The stubble field catches
the last growth of sun.
The soybeans are breathing on all sides.
Old men are sitting before their houses
on car seats
In the small towns. I am happy,
The moon rising above the turkey sheds.
The small world of the car
Plunges through the deep fields
of the night,
On the road from Willmar to Milan.
This solitude covered with iron
Moves through the fields of night
Penetrated by the noise of crickets.
Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge,
And water kneeling in the moonlight.
In small towns the houses are built
right on the ground;
The lamplight falls on all fours
on the grass.
When I reach the river,
the full moon covers it.
A few people are talking, low,
in a boat.
Posted over on Poetry Foundation
Robert Bly, “Driving toward the Lac Qui Parle River” from Silence in the Snowy Fields (Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press, 1962). Copyright © 1962 by Robert Bly.