The leaves rust on their branches.
The road is a bridge, is a road again.
I did not see the sign--the Des Plaines,
the Illinois, or the Chicago, North Branch--
intent on staying in the lines, on moving
forward. The news last night was bad.
The lump is not benign, it does not
wish her well. It does not wish. But we,
in our rushing, our rivering, our intent,
we wish: for these leaves to be washed
of their rust, for all to be well, again.