Martha Landman

It was February and hot
He was a single man, geography teacher
at that small agricultural boarding school.
He might’ve had a drink or two at the pub
before heading back to school, eager boarders
waiting to be the first to see that Mustang.
He might have opened the windows
though his short stiff blonde curls
wouldn’t have waved in the wind.
Imagine him enjoying the feel,
the smell of the leather seats, the power
of the engine through that steering wheel
his right foot flat in the corner,
smiling at the cows in the meadow
adrenalin picking up on his heartbeat,
pumping with the sounds
of Sweet Home Alabama.
If only that thick elm tree
hadn’t been in the way.
Imagine pure silence, cows
blinking their eyes, swerving,
stop chewing their cud
before walking off to another shade.