We drove to the crash
site that claimed the rest
of our garage band and the route
contained sudden hills that pressed a slight
sickness as we lunged over each peak.

We headed to Lusk farms
where the growing corn flowed
like emerald ribbon. I had been down
this road before but noticed many things
I overlooked–the minuscule shoulder
and the garden stores
promising to sharpen blades.

When the opposite lane stopped
growling with cars I felt
judgment from her cold whistles.
Uneasy, I reached for her hand
but she closed hers into a creamy stone,
and on the radio, violin players
dug into their strings. They grew
louder as we approached the field
like we were villains in a horror short.

The farmer on the scene witnessed
screams blossoming
out of the fires. But he didn’t appear,
nor the Aerostar reduced to green baby food 
or dented eighteen-wheeler. Nothing’s left, 
she said, and gestured with fluttering fingers,
like a guitarist shredding
the neck in an encore solo,
or just a neighborly hello.