State of Grace

Three thousand feet

and twenty nine degrees,
the rain turned to snow
and reflected in the beams
from intermittent street lamps.

The ruts in the road
widened over Indian John Hill
and the firs lining the way
grew menacing fingers.

One moment caught a scant glance
of carrion in the road.
Just a miserable pile left
in some other traveler's wake.
There is no stopping, this time,
on this road.

One glimpse in the rear view
and a moment of recognition
in that miserable pile of bone and hide;
the dusty pile of road-weary carcass
met some lonely end on this same road.
It might have been hours,
it might have been days ago.

No trail of ruby red
tail lights to follow
and no clear path,
just ruts in the road.