Sunday In The Hills by Yash Seyedbagheri

a white truck roars up a hill

and then another, this one black

lights break through the snow

trucks whooshing past

laughter and invectives break the sky


license plates from hidden counties

whipping past

with Bud Lights

armpits and stale feet

and clouds billowing in your exhausted face


they disappear around a bend and another bend

the roar eaten by the pines

flakes flutter


like ballerinas in rehearsal


the sky is still

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