Poem: Winter Squall

Silence simmers with suspense before

the sky hurls cyclones of snow downward,

spinning, they beat and moan against doors,

the gale screaming its melancholy chord.

I grip the steering wheel at ten and two;

I feel for the lane with my whole being.

Ghosts envelope car tracks in their grey-blue

veils, hiding painted lines from my seeing.

We are weak under nature’s fury:

blistering sun or numbing cold

A blizzard does not bow to 5G

In nature’s eyes, we’ve never evolved.