Snowmobiling at Midnight
Kevin Casey

We met by the gas station beneath
a moon near full but distant as a star,
and across the scattered lattice of maple
shadows it cast, I followed him, pulled
through our exhaust into the small, blue hours.

Having traveled this far into most nights,
I’d be sifting through the strange narrative
of dreams, but now we skimmed at highway speeds
along a rutted track—ghosts falling aimless
through the indigo, just a breath away
from trees streaming past in a watery blur.

My tired mind lay curled head to tail
inside the cushion of my helmet.
Lulled and squinting, I followed the bleared eye
of red tail light that wavered before me
in time with my motor’s hum, like some
memory fluttering just beyond reach.

And on the final loop, when the trail arced
around the base of a hill, there was a light
as bright as day—a midnight groomer,
its blade slicing the trail smooth, descending
the ridge on its massive tracks like an angel,
and the woods flooded with its brilliance.

Pulled over, blinking at the spectacle,
I strained to hear the voice of Gabriel
above its engine, to learn what these visions
of the last two-hundred miles had meant,
and to know whether any dawn would come.

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