Varied Thrush

A dirt road tracks up the Cascade mass
into thin light. In mountain-cold,
granite-fresh air a razor trill
draws a tart slice through evergreen shadows,

then a higher pitch slits the air.
I slow the truck and the brakes answer
with an irritable squeal, and nothing moves.
Somewhere in the back room the clerk

quietly kills time until I get bored
and move on. Down the ridge
a razor trill draws a tart slice
across the Cascade mass.