Soon, hills will wane brown
their leaves laid on the ground
then covered with snow
into the soil, they’ll sow
a feed for new life to seed

We are the leaves, waning brown
on the hills


Driving Rain


Thru the night, flying low in a driving rain

A lane shift in a construction zone, the chicane(ry)

The spray off the semi-truck beside you, reducing visibility to mere inches

The disconcerting roar of its diesel, the peal of tires, the ominous bulk

Two misty taillights but feet in front of you, your sole means of navigation,

flash a brighter shade red