The rain runs a race across my window.
The sun pops, brightening the white lines
painted on the highway. I squint
or grin, thinking of the drive to Riverside,
what I missed these years coming in

from the southern side, through miles
of cows chewing wet grass.
Just off the exit ramp, a cluster
of yellow trees hangs like Roman grapes;
a hundred empty houses swarm
around a steeple, and the dying
leaves close in.

I see Springfield in pockets,
like paint dropped on a palette,
or like the water, sprinkled on my face,
turned up from the tractor-trailer
and sprayed through the window,
which I am glad you opened.