Comfort That Turned Cold

WE had come out of the town not far
As wheels turn now and distances are;
And my friend, who drove, stared straight ahead
Where an oily thing called a highway led,
With never a turn that I could see
From the town behind to infinity.
A small sleek cell, of enormous power,
Measured it seventy miles per hour.

Yet not so fast that I missed the sight
Of something as right as a wood is right;
As a slope of beach or a river bend,
Right forever, world without end:
An old dirt road that climbed a hill,
Winding up at its own sweet will.
I muttered, ‘ The Lord be thanked for that!'
My friend inclined his head. ‘For what? ’
‘For something more than the breeze we’ve burned,’
I said; ‘for a road as wheels once turned.’
‘Oh, that!’ He grinned. ‘Give thanks while you may.
Next summer they’re taking the hill away.’

I turned for a parting glimpse, too late.
We were miles beyond, in another state.