Late November, early December
There is no moisture in the air
I travel through the piedmont
South of Commerce, travelling
Toward Athens and Madison on 441
Taking note of the dying light
Painting shades of soft pinks and Christmas orange
Across the western sky
The pine trees now black silhouettes
Stitched against the horizon,
An oriental painting on a silken canvas,
The constant beat of the wheels
Turning the rhythm of my heart.
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