The roads are so young
Where old mines have been forgotten.
They stumble through the forest
Uneven, full of ruts, washouts.
Men have come with tools
Left them, returned with better.
Implements that shine silver
Rust resistant, until rains never stop.
The goal is to cut clean, to sprinkle
Shaped earth, decorating the contours
Of river, pools, and growth.
We, the ones, who yell along trails
Echoing off ancient volcanic movements
Slip five dollars
Inside an envelope–
license plate number–
Scrawled in human–
Bleached white envelopes–
Connect with the eerie reflection
Of how we carve, paint, sing, make roads–
And yes, the art of the outhouse.
The parking lot must be made bigger