one tiny shift and you were
(air)borne. wingless, released,
a few motorists saw you, mouths trembling,
in the distance, a beautiful thunderstorm
its cloud a furious fist,
aimed at the sun.
for the last seven days,
my windshield has bent mountains.
miles of tree line,
snow drifts–pushed into each other,
compressed, distorted, discarded
by a cruel tectonics
of glass, sunlight, drive.