racing home

the end

of a working day

constitutes a race of sorts.

strange that.

i don't like to hurry much of anything.

but getting home

is something i hurry along.

it's where so much

of what

i value

waits.

racing home

through the chilled hollowness

of a february afternoon.

deep aqua skies

settle on snow-blown hills

slender-fingered trees

draw the last rays

of warmth

and light

into themselves.