The Sandhills are braced
for the blizzard. Steely thrum
of tires on cold pavement. A scythe moon
ripping cloud, good black coffee
and grizzled rocker music
blasting the doors off because
you’re locked in tight. Fists grip the wheel.
You’ll be all night outracing the storm,
running down scarlet dawn.
— Copyright (c) 2015 Steve Kline