Point the hood of the truck to the north.
North on the Ferry to Woods Hole.
North towards Boston.
North towards Vermont.
North where there will be sunrise through an attic window.
Where a walk nearby beckoned.
In a field where overhead, sixteen geese flew.
Then a day came of monochrome grays.
A day of muted sky colors and reflected symmetry.
The day to leave came.
That morning the hood of the truck pointed here and there, passing through Montpelier.
Then appeared a number on a sign.
Eighty-nine headed off, through misty mountains.
Through misty mountains, eighty-nine headed south.
So did the hood of the truck.