A pale ghostly specter,
 
nothing more than a solitary figure
of a woman
standing in a clearing,
 
in the shade of timber; digger pines, black oak,
red dirt. 
 
I can see her
From the railroad-grade,
a human-form, a face of discernible sadness.
 
I stare
at the hypnotic wreckage of a woman,
 
            some irreducible dark aura
surrounds her in heavy overcast of virga skies,
when the horoscope predicts disaster,
the weatherman forecasts rain north of Mercy.
 
            An empty shell in a white chemise
on a back-road morning, above the river's gorge
                         
set against gigantic steel skeletons cradling
high-tension power lines, marching
 
into the wooded basin surrounded by seven hills. 
There is very little else but clicking
 
Static electricity in the space over emptiness,
 
And a poor woman’s visage is gone
near the bridge at José Creek.