Moving

The car runs smoothly, tires hum
on tarmac preserved
by dry weather, infrequent traffic.

The radio blares in Spanish,
broken by static,
Latin polkas, frenetic accordians.

At a steady seventy, low hills
flecked with sagebrush
slide below an azure backdrop.

Dashes join in the distance:
behind me the road
gradually regains its curve.

I nudge the pedal, lean back
in the surge,
almost sure I'm moving.