89 brings April
Driving home on highway 89
the air hangs heavy.
South a mile over hills that roll
the Little Belts parallel the road.
A trying window of blue sky
glimmers dim in a scalloped wall of gray
hovering above the pine-treed range.
To the north Mount Baldy disappears
under clouds letting loose
winter’s last blankets.
High on the belly of Montana,
a dreary drizzle receives aplomb from
faded yellow grasses
that glow in the gloaming
of this April Fool’s drive.
I drove my daughter to her dad’s house today after school. He lives about 100 miles down highway 89. It’s a trip I make often, and today the day hung dreary. The landscape is beautiful. The air felt saturated, and we have winter storm warnings for tomorrow. In Montana we joke that the only thing constant about our weather is that it changes. The drive provided fodder for prompt 5 from NaPoWriMo. "5. Use a form of water in your poem– ice, drop, drip, drizzle, mist, etc." Visit their site for more poets who are committed to creating verse every day this month.