Road poetry #1

From the Oachita to the Ozarks

A Mighty fog blankets the Oachita and the Sun is reduced to a pale ghost And I slow down to take in this ethereal landscape. The trees expire, and I see their spirits dance above the thick grass leaving carpets of mist above clearings, lingering like a lover’s kiss from the night before The trees are shorter now compared to the trees in the midwest No dancing hawks like in the Smokies, or perhaps it’s too early and wet for them (it must be 7am) Backroads while the most scenic, can also be the most frustrating It’s now daylight and morning traffic has slowed to a crawl. Enough is enough, I decide to cross the double yellow line to overtake the slowpokes in front of…

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