speeding through a black night.
The headbeams don’t reach far enough, I fear.
light hands on the wheel
anticipate every curve.
he slows a little and the car flies
over a slight rise in the road.
Later, he dips
the highbeam and fifty feet shrink to thirty.
What is it? I ask. Motorcycle.
The cyclist passes,
waves gratefully. Our light flicks up again.
I still cannot see the road beyond the beam.
he knows this road, every curve, every pothole.
We will be fine. I sit back and relax.