Conservation

The wind dies down. The highway roars into focus.
They play this game until something snaps
in half, half a metre away.
Then they disappear.

The omnipresent hum of bundled wires.
Overhead trees of wood and trees of metal
grow or do not grow in a field
slimly allowed and allotted.
It has a purpose.

The old road is still somehow marked
with a yellow line, broken in places.
Pavement that could not stand
slow jackhammering trees
buckled.

The omnipresent hum of mosquitos.
They do not care who made the swamp
or why. They break through gasoline slicks.
They find a way to their own
reservoirs.

The wind picks up, still punctuated
by brief cries of gridlocked anguish.
Something snaps in half, half a metre away.
Maybe the spine of the earth
under all this weight.

For a moment I commit to breathing less,
but only for a moment.