After dark,
the illusion is greatest.
Headlights of approaching vehicles,
and taillights of those ahead
create the impression
that they're disembodied.
Floating ribbons of white and red lights
perform a cryptic ballet,
weave in and out,
seem to follow a pattern,
but shifting sequences
suggest ethereal fractals.
Images merge and part,
reflect in large bus windows
at each side of my seat.
The diesel hum adds to the play.
Head back against seat,
I succumb to the harmless diversion
of lights and vibration.
The freeway.
A virtual moving organism.
Trucks of every size,
from countless locations,
appear joined bumper to bumper
in an undulating Lambada.
Amber, white and red running-lights
line trailer tops for as far as I can see.
Thousands of trucks roll past this night,
thousands proceed me,
moving cargos to ordained destinations,
the twenty-first century body of business,
red corpuscles in the circulatory system
of western world commerce.
After dark,
the illusion is greatest.

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