2022 Poetry Runner-Up: "Commuting" by Rebekah Hutchinson

One hour each way, mainly two-lane highways
I drive past grazing cattle, haybales

Tiny towns with one gas pump,
Two churches, and a red brick street.

I love this drive in the Fall, when
The trees are maturing, and becoming

What they were always meant to be.
There’s one particular tree—I don’t know the name—

That changes color from the inside out.
Most trees change from east to west, or top to bottom,

But this tree starts at the center, red hot,
turns to orange, and soft yellow with green tips.

As I drive, I glimpse this unmistakable,
Unlike any other, fire and gasp.

Holding my breath to stop time
As I rubberneck, cradling this moment with reverence.

I drive past dilapidated barns, sinking houses,
And the spot it happened.

I gasp, driving over the very ground. . .
I wasn’t there, I don’t know what it was like,

But I see headlights, bright and white
As I stand on an empty, two-lane highway.

When a deer runs across the road, I’ll see myself standing there.
Or when a mere weed blows and I stomp the brake pedal,

My heart pounds. I’m there.
My ears ring as those headlights race toward me

And the world fades to white.
I don’t feel the pain,

Don't visualize the impact.
Before I can I come back to the present,

Where I’m driving down a simple two-lane
Empty road.

And I breathe again—a great gulp of air—
As I try to banish the looping image from my mind.

In those moments, I am the tree,
Being burned up from the inside out.