Contortions

Fog hits me out of an I-70 tunnel towards Pittsburgh. The valley is gone, replaced by long shadows and splintered sunlight. It’s just me and a few others now, twisting through timber. These hills are blots, what would otherwise be reference points.

Those limbs are marching now, hinting a stretch across the guard rails. In some amount of time they could make their way into my rib cage. The road is choking. Any theories on the weather are in question. Would it not be easier than obscuring a distant origin?