Driving Spell

Snow swirls, sweeps
over dark asphalt like mist
off brooding cauldron.
Black ice with feathery white veil,
a witches' brew of trouble.
Minus 35 chill and all's not well,
it's a wint'ry wicked driving spell.

Migration

Migration

The dotted lines rise skyward, spaced evenly

like kindergarteners on a knotted rope

taking a field trip to a southern zoo

but instead of singing a tune

we hear the occasional cry

It’s my turn to lead

wings sweep away

with mechanical whirr

no teacher in sight