Stopping in Williamsport

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Accelerating through Steam Valley,

Pennslyvania, as the gray thick

fog collapses across the roadway,

I breath a distant breath, and

realize that we are all born with

shovels in our hand, meant to dig

our own graves. Eleven hours

driving, and I remember row on

row of eighteen-wheelers, all yellow

light oncoming, twisting past me,

spraying brown snow onto my windshield,

and I think of the little deaths that

attack us daily. The might have beens,

the fates clothed in counteracting

coincidences. What sad new year, grasps

my hand quickly and guides me to

these thoughts of mortality. A high

red hillside of falling rocks, that

shatterred, and collapsed the yellow

Falling Rock Ahead sign. Crushed it

like a portent, bringing my mind back

to the exit, slow ramp sadness of January

in Williamsport; where, shovels on our

shoulders, we struggle through the little deaths.

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