Sleeping to the sound of the truck's motion vibrating my eight year old arms,
I dreamt of skyscrapers peppering mountains like trees.
A current of cars rushing on highway rivers,
The undertow of black rubber skid tracks.
I dreamt of cities at night looking like pearls,
threaded by bridges to wear around my neck.
And then suddenly opening my eyes,
the way children can sense when they're home;
I woke up to blazing orange lights against blackness and pine trees,
looking like the fires of coal-powered engines, of cigarette thoughts.
The logging yard lit up like sunlight through stained glass church windows
or a desert oasis.
These trucks being loaded and unloaded were endless,
This has always existed, I thought to myself,
This will always exist.
Ten years later, I can see those lights from my backyard
with logging trucks going east and west
and I am eight years old again thinking,
This is how God must feel.