Driving the Highway South
By Armando Ortiz
Eight thousand miles and the coffee cup is cold,
a constant swish of passing cars cycle through the road,
nights are longer, and cling on to me ever more
blowing winds from Michigan have been stalking.
Green pastures have turned dirty gold,
dawn and nightfall stay longer than the midday sun
the last crescent moon the Autumn shimmers
slowly rising on the eternal apricot horizon.
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