The morning makes
me come to wake
and take
the same
mundane
trip.

On the road
I follow those
who rush into
a blurry flurry
of winter weather
that moves
water across the sky.

In their wake
white wisps
of snow smoke
move across the highway,
like cold specters
with nowhere to go.

Heater fogging up
my driver side window,
as a white wasteland
which is partially punctuated
by small protruding
black rocks
become jagged streaks
then nothing but
poetic etching to me.

On time to work
though I wish
I had stayed home
hugging my warm
electric blanket
as I read some eclectic
literature.