Young Writers Society

the black sky
seems very high above us.
nature rolls out in all directions
and the moisture
runs like tears down the glass.

the back seat
is wide and cold,
i curl my toes
inside my uggs
and press my forehead
against the window.

polka plays on the radio;
"well I haven't heard polka before
but I can tell you,
this is bad polka"
and a flick of the strong wrist,
reaching over from the passenger seat -
you've turned it off.

and the wince of pain
on her small, lined face
as the sound died.

the three of us
hurtling along
the black road
though the black night,
black fields stretching out,
black tractors littering the icy corn fields
like sleeping giants.

we breathe ghosts
that linger in the air -
hovering -
before melting,
fading.