Which Way?

His cut-out car drawls to a stop.
Light wards off shadows,
crept into cervices in the foamy snow.

The door cranks open.
He wrangles with the engine,
metal bits in a car’s mouth;
he consoles his fingers with cloudy breath.

He falls back into his car. His coat
cries freshly melted snow
for the dying gasps of the heater.

Tendrils of netted trees,
are like the traces of rain on a window;
they stretch to drag their heavy limbs over the bank.            

The stormy sky freezes the snow into stars.

Songless snowbirds slump on powerlines.

He confides in the soulless luggage next to him,
watching the crucifix powerline fade,
his headlights hushed into the silent night.

Chelsea Rutherford