Open door

Listening to quiet fog past midnight
Where humming motors still and,
speeding past, the night shifts, change,
and hurry on the lonely highway
home.
Silently, the large, round orbs glow past
and unpadding feet trod toward open field.
Ears pricked, the hunter is the fastest vehicle, to sprint, to run, to dine contented
on
a meal of
cars
fly
by
on the distant highway.