red tailights

packed, with
her hands upon
the wheel,
you tap the car
farewell
and off it goes.
the tires churn on
the cold cinders.
she doesn't look
back. dusk is lying
down a soft grey
pallor of light
behind the hills
while slow geese
rise and fall gently
towards water.
and you watch the
red tailights come
and go from view
as the road winds
in and out, down
through the shallow
palms of the land
where the covered
wooden bridge
seems to catch the car
then let it go.
your hands are in
your pockets, your
dog is at your side,
neither barking, or
wagging his tail.
he knows something
isn't right. he
pants gently not
wanting attention,
but letting you
have this moment.
and when the final
flash of red slides
into black, like
stars behind a cloud,
you go inside and
let her fade from view.