Ten large trucks at dawn
wheel headlit from the high dock,
growling urgency
among the noiseless towers.
Proud as peacocks
we trail our fans of airwash,
engines screeching
for the female of the breed: human, avian or three-ton vehicular.
Crossing 3rd, 2nd and Jasper avenues
we rumble to the river;
one by one we plunge over the bank's brow
and disappear into the valley bowl-brimming morning fog.
The brake lights of the one ahead take us to the bridge,
for in this fleet feel our compass narrows
to the one ahead, the one ahead, the one ahead.
At bottom we cross the bridge,
the bottleneck where, side-by-side, our fenders almost touch:
so close that, glancing aside through finger-widths of fog,
we see each other as though in mirrors.
But then we climb.
Snaking up the hill we feel the mist grow thinner.
The engines snarl at gravity,
and as we emerge into the high, clear air
the fleet begins dispersal.
First one, then a second, and another, truck turns off,
taking with it a single throb of the fleet feel
until we commune again tomorrow.
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