Storming Toward a Precipice

A diesel freight truckroars toward us.A precipice is no miragefor its metal plunge.It is headlong nevertheless."It carries its own storm,"I say dryly, feelingmy tongue wet my lips.Trapped steel storming,the faint line just so, just inches just split time, just nothing morethan luck keeps us alive.The mirage of metal stormingis a precipice, no mirage.