Somewhere on the road to North Platte
between Broken Bow and White Horse Creek
easing down toward five below
you sing in your daddy’s truck
with Willie Nelson fading in and out
on a twenty year-old tape you’d made
at the University of Nebraska
while geese fly across the face
of a fat round moon
that lights the snow like morning
on a field where black horses stand
under gnarled trees against a gray barn
beside a rushing river
and my heart cracks open like ice in black water,
tumbling along for the ride.