I wrote this about my trip from Colorado Spring to Fort Wayne in 1985. It seems an apt metaphor today for turning 70.
I-70
Chasing Kansas twisters, I interrupt
The moon floating above a thunderhead,
God pondering his coffee cup.
The locust lullaby in the trees
Is a song to stars, or to the dead:
Fireflies flash where I cannot see.
Above the hood, the shuffling storm
Is a man on his knees, fist shaking,
Roaring for his shattered arm.
Behind, the sky is empty and clear.
The earth recedes quickly, quivering:
Ground heat cracks the icy air.
