Motorway

It starts as a communication: four trees in an arc with bow, on a hillside in the sun.
Through their branches, a society of brightness—almost pink—pierces through
and we become a cellar lit alive in a neat second of concrete awe. I was to go out
into the small towns, big cities, and the immeasurable world, as sure, as changeable,
as the scenes that swiftly pass these windows, riding the (seemingly) direct motorway.
And as they hurdle by, I can see the faint face of myself stare back—wanting to disappear.