Black Snake

Like ink from the nib of a pen
this black line flows
in waves of descending amplitude
across the road.

I slow down and stop just to watch it.

The road, it seems, is invitation,
an unmarked page
just aching
for natural response.

It’s a space where ink may flow
more sure of line
than ones I leave on paper.
But, then, I'm aware of danger. 

Once across, it's safe, 
unseen in roadside grass.
and I have witnessed the miraculous:
a poem in flesh embodied:
ink, pen, and line.