The air was white
with the promise of snow,
crisp, cold, and brittle.
anti-lock brakes, skid control,
daughter beside me, son asleep in back.
The air was white,
snow flurrying, dancing, flying.
The wipers labored in their steady beat
to drown the thrum
and boom of traffic,
the rumble of sanders,
the roar of trucks flying past.
Steamy breath, icy windows,
fragile cocoon of fog and steel and glass.
The tires sluiced
through tracks of thundering plow.
Daughter next to me, eyes on book, heedless,
as great muddy clods, black
and blinding, smacked the windshield,
as if my face. Son asleep in back, his seatbelt
around his prone body,
fragile cocoon of kidneys, lungs, and heart.