Appalachian Descent

Just as the world tilts forward,

the asphalt gives way

to something steeper than sleep,

steeper than the hill

I climbed to get here.

My car crests the ridge

and suddenly there's no more up,

only down stretching

like a black tongue

into the valley's mouth.

The steering wheel goes light

in my hands. Gravity

takes over the conversation.

Pine trees blur past

too fast to count,

their shadows racing

alongside my headlights.

This is the moment

between coasting and falling,

when physics becomes personal

and the road decides

it's tired of being flat.

My stomach lifts.

The speedometer climbs

without my help.

In the rearview mirror,

the hilltop shrinks

to a memory of level ground.

Brake lights bloom red

in the darkness ahead,

someone else learning

what I'm learning:

that some roads

only go one direction,

and turning back

was never an option.