The low-lying gods are fog on the river,
8:45 on a Saturday morning,
the dogs don’t bark.
Three deer turn as one to watch 
as you pass, the ocean-roar of trucks 
beyond the levee the compass
that tells you which fork will take you 
back to the day you left at the curb. 
A solo raccoon navigates four lanes 
of asphalt, indifferent as suburbia 
in your wake.