The smoke dissipates
on this country road
as I chase contrails
I will never catch.
And the rosy hue of a
sunset in the west on an
April night almost makes the
drive worthwhile.
Moths dance in the spotlight
cast from headlights
that illuminate their dingy wings,
making them shine like
precious stones.
Hope hangs in the air
with the wisp of moon
that barely glows against
a backdrop of fire orange
and sky blue gradient.
But like the contrails,
that grow fainter with each mile,
I am fading.
Like the moths,
I fly.
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