And for a moment, looking at this photo,
I feel whatever part of me that travels
without my body wander into wonder,

transfixed by the symmetry of concrete
pillars topped with soothing arches.
But it doesn’t look like the I-80 I know.

And then I remember the enormity
of this continent and the east/west
interstate that stretches wide

its elastic arms. So I look it up:
This cathedral lives in an Ohio national
park, spans the Cuyahoga, a word

meaning crooked river that my western
tongue mangles. It runs beneath a
turnpike (a foreign concept in California),

anchored, for the moment, in snow,
which does not visit sea-level valley cities
like mine. But I cannot stop looking at

the shapely curves, the strong columns
that look as if they’ve stood as majestically
long as any medieval cathedral.

Which makes me peer more closely,
searching for a hooded monk, perhaps
carrying a battered lantern that he

will light on his rounds as the short day
fades, before he climbs the bell tower
to pull the ropes and set them pealing,

as the strong pillars gentled by light
do the job they’ve done for ages—provide
much-needed, rock-solid stability—

they hold and hold and hold.