Air, only a few degrees away
from the scent of snow,
possessing no echo, other than
resonance across slopes
tight and coarse like skin,
voices. Through the windshield,
behind the shade over my eyes,
lost distinguishing
distancing myriad textures
over the land underneath. Highway
concrete in patches
as the grating wheels tumble
carrying turbulence, through
a cold timbre interior,
to me, mimicking static.
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