Interstate: Epilogue–Virginia, I-81: Mile 205

Muting snow blankets the ground save
the still warm pavement; melting in small
puddles, it gathers, reflects opacity.

Still, only one sound can be heard.
A distant highway shears through night's
sound-proofing batting, now less pressing:

poor conditions inevitably
slow the endless careen of trucks some.
I miss the silence's totality

that past greeted those in snowstorms:
birds did not fly; livestock, except
the seldom bleat of newborn lambs,

too young to know better, sit quietly
in their pens, waiting for snow or wind
to drive the absorbing silence past

the next hill. Life then continued.
Now, nothing stops the path of progress
pushing through the snow, leaving long

snakes, too slowly filled, on the asphalt,
salted for a good roasting, never shuts.
Snowshoes are a long forgotten ware.

Save dreams here, near the endless whine—
Interstate rumbling on—children still
romp, their glee ringing off the hills and streets.