a matter of navigation

a matter of navigation

thirty miles from town

the road splits,

county maintenance

smooths the gravel north

between deep, well-dug ditches

but south

a rutted mud-path

is pocked with mirrors

from last night's rain

the radio tells you

it's thirty-six degrees

and dropping fast

and your breath is fogging

the windshield

you do not know

which way to turn

north is safe

and leads into town

to the warmth

of fireplaces

and cafés

fried eggs

coffee

cigarette smoke

south leads you out

onto the vast prairie

like a slow bug

on a ball

leaves you stuck

hubs buried

axle high-centered

and night falling

you listen to the radio

for hours

the temperature drops

the clouds

move in to bury you

and when your battery

goes dead

and the only voice

besides your own

goes dumb

you listen

to the sound of wind

sound of snow

shifting, piling higher

sound of breath

sound of heart

slowing

in a month

they find you

your hands still

on the wheel