90

My view is the red blink glare

of brakelights, my foot a constant

shadow over the black pedal.

We inch toward the yawning

rectangle, burst through

gulping the scene into gray-mist lungs:

silver lake smooth like melted metal;

whisper-veined clouds painted in the horizon;

ethereal pink pushing at snow-capped peaks;

and Rainer, like a sentry, guarding as we cross.

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