weaving  through the farmland
past black bodied cattle
in misty fields of green
zipping past the rows of Christmas trees
varying heights
we hit the sharp right at near 50
and dive into the Birch forest
steep grade and a hard right
down into the bottom of the glen
and time slows
the grass and brush glisten a little brighter
and sunlight displaced
gives shadows a playground of mossy Eden
the trees seem to lean in
surrounding the open meadow
my pre-pubescent mind
has relegated this
the place of unicorns
fairies and elves
I hop up in the back of the backseat to watch
utopia fade into the distance
its delicate ferns
and wild lilies
dance in the breeze
left by my father’s old blue Pontiac
he yells and I turn quickly back into position
locking the seat belt
and looking at the red face in the rearview
staring back
this road is always worth the *** whooping --