The Passing Lane

Through the glow 
of dashboard lights 
reflected in the glass, 
I watch a plow drop its blade 
and scrape the ice, 
knicking the blacktop. 

The occasional contact 
curls sparks over the snow 
in sporadic bursts— 
the mathematic arcs of tiny suns
as they spin through dark matter 

With a yaw and thrum 
the plow slides by, 
glints and flecks in the mirror, 
recedes into the past 
where objects 
are closer than they appear.