of Cheyenne, December
Austerity molds the rise of hills
in worn brush and craggy patches
to the outline of white peaks pressed
by the winds which can unleash flurries,
drive them to blizzards. Someone said
the howls never end here until you take
your life, and some do, and I believe
every story winter can tell. Watch
the road; treachery lies five feet
visibly ahead as taillights warn.
Another truck waits in a roadside ditch,
and I know, having crossed the Divide
three times in a half-hour, direction:
It's ice. It's loneliness. It's the choice
to rush unnaturally towards the Pacific.