Nowhere

this red dirt road  
these thistles gone brown and gold  
on a high bank where it curves  
up past Shumpert's trailer  

the tangle of woods there  
its ragged beauty like a secret  
whispered  
pine to pine to sycamore  
to green oak and laurel  
and to what small life forages amid tangled roots  
or rests on grey branches bared to autumn's chill  
 
and all of this mine in these quick minutes  
 
and these words like a prayer of gratitude