The hiss of cicadas like steam escaping,
Wild rhubarb white as picked-bones curling
in amongst masses of racing green nettles.
At this distance the motorway sounds
like a wide-load animal grumbling, lowing,
baying to its mate in its seasonless pasture
behind those trees, those gesturing branches
whose solicitous hey! over here! invites us:
Come see the Traffic, you natural-historians!