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East in Winter

The sky is the east
bound highway. Winter
trees hold hawks.

How many miles
can we run
without radio?

The engine fades,
the rumble of the road,
its hypnosis.

Weave in and out
between trucks.
There’s more freeway

as much ahead
as behind.

Published inPoems

4 Comments

    • Thanks, Dick. I guess it’s all the country music I grew up with that has me so interested in writing road poems. That and the fact that I love road trips…

  1. I agree that it’s a good road poem, but there’s something almost Anglo-Saxon in the alliteration and images you have here. Wonderful stuff.

    • Thanks, Joseph. I hadn’t even thought about that, such was the rush of NaPoWriMo. Glad you enjoyed it.

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