Jeff Streeby

Wall, South Dakota

(from River:  I-90 West)

White moon. 
Steady hum of 302.   
Snowdrifts downwind two stories tall.
Big rigs folded up in the median. 
Abandoned cars iced over, buried to the windshields. 
He feels the Mustang tilt in the wind.

Hospital.  Airport.  Gas.  Food.  Lodging.  Exit. 
All the universal signs. 

Grinding east under its yellow strobe, an orange plow makes time:
chirp of chains; great wing of snow; sparks under the blade.  

Dark mirrors. 
Cold coffee.   

Wall Drug still hours off.