The car jolts and rocks along the track, as though dragged by chains to a chased beast.
I am the beast.
The indistinct greyed-over bogs and swollen rivers coming down the hills whish by the windows
I am the window.
Father is a good driver, but sometimes an angry driver, and now he has eyes only for the road.
I am the road.
The bends are the same as always but the speed has changed them into whipthumping snarls
I am the snarl.
I know that when we return he will shout at them all but they will soak it up like the wind
I am the wind.
I will flow, bicker, bellow, snicker,
Through the eves of your dropping moods
To harass the loose tarp that hides the part that broods
And raise up windcatching seeds to blow
At soft ground where only hard things grow
I know that we will leave again after the shouting and drive more slowly and be swallowed up by the falling skies
I am the sky.
In its endless I fly.