It starts just as I’m merging —
a scatter of soft taps on the windshield
that quickly agree to become a steady conversation.
The wipers, summoned from their long repose,
begin their familiar metronome,
clearing a narrow stage for my eyes,
then letting the world slip back again
into its wet blur.
Other drivers pass me —
gray shapes with faint halos,
as if each car were some minor saint
on its own private pilgrimage.
I grip the wheel as if steering mattered,
as if this stretch of road
weren’t already written,
the lines dissolving under a wash of water.
And though I know
there’s coffee ahead,
with someone soft
a conversation,
perhaps even sunlight later,
for now I am content
to follow these blinking taillights
through the gray pages of this morning.
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