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i see you prowling the lawn near exit 407, keeping watch over your slice of I40 east.
in stark contrast to the fast food and fireworks to which the metal beasts flock,
your kingdom is quiet,
seemingly still despite the whirring, rushing concrete rivers on either side.

a blink, eyes back on the road, i see you pounce in the peripheral.
something unwelcome banished from your yard, or perhaps a midday snack crossed your path at last.
you must know every inch of your mid-road domain:
every orange-clad clean up crew there on your bidding,
every wildflower planted per your green paw plans.

and all of a sudden i am 10 years old,
forehead resting on cold, shaky glass.
you leap from your median to tree-top hop,
my road-trip companion while sisters whisper and play.

you zoom alongside, tomcat turned cheetah,
keeping me flush with daydream company all the way to florida.