Snow cold road
Snaked between hillsides
Muddied with sleet
Rocks ice-slick
Sky close, tumbling into blue
Sun edging
Along November tree line.
I was singing my way down
Singing and old hymn
The kind meant to carry
From hollow to hollow
Hollered in joy
Snapping into day
Sharp on the vowels
And stepping up, then down
Before sliding
Along final notes.
Trading one set of mountains
For another
Because of a third.
Because of eleven days
Of cold
Howling winds like freight-trains
Of rain
Water pitchered from the sky
Of hawks
Careening
Calling me from there
To …
Not yet
Here.
