Stopped

He stands serene
in the officer’s spotlight
on the side of the highway
as the din of the traffic tries unsuccessfully
to eclipse the crickets and the tree frogs.

He doesn’t hear the hollow, rubbery pitch
coming from the oversized off-road tires
of the country boys’ trucks
or the airbrakes on the flatbeds
as they downshift for the hill
or the crackling voices over the officer's radio.
He's lost in the breeze
sliding through the pines
and the tall grass covering the hillside on mile 17.

His eyes are fixed on the moon
as he alternately folds each outstretched arm
back to his body
slowly
and somehow gracefully.

He lifts one foot
and he’s a crane,
waiting to take flight
over the pines
and the hills
away from the flashing lights
and the cars
and for that matter,
the billboards
and the bottles
and the taxes
and the papers
and a woman
who is fast asleep in someone else's house
a thousand miles away.