Voices on the Wind
Walking makes a crunching sound,
footprints in mud angle off leading
someone somewhere around gray
remains of last week’s snow.
Mud flaps are aptly named but
still the grunge hits windshields
leaving smudges of grime, ghosts
of yesterday’s efforts to clear roads.
Tracks of once abandoned autos
veer from concrete lanes to be
filled with black water set to
refreeze when darkness unveils.
A lone small cross sits to the right
reminiscent of last year’s winter
blight and someone’s lost son or
daughter, left behind with memories
and winter’s detritus.