Unevenly, that's me. I go
careening left or right or low
above rough hills or mountaintops
by rivers, timber, sudden drops,
and, if it rains, I turn to mud
and laugh when wheels spin and scud.

No signs to speak of, fancy rails,
or lights at night, just winding trails,
to roam however long I like.
I'm often crossed on foot or bike.

Most city cars get lost out here,
beside the squirrels, beavers, deer,
and rush on through before the dark
demands they slow down or they park,
endure an evening without sleep
as owls screech and shadows leap
beneath a moon waxed ghostly white
while silhouettes slip out of sight.

Yes, other roads run well-behaved,
but that's their tough luck, being paved.
Out here I'm careless as the land,
and no one needs to understand
why I prefer to rove so coarse,
or why my closest friend's a horse,
or why I must not be refined,
or how it is I'm so resigned
to lend no sense of here or there
and might as well lead anywhere
except the place you'd rather be.
I go my way, with nature, free.