I weigh each message,
consider fragments and moods,
balance the imperative to
“watch for falling rocks”
against the need to eye
the edges of the winding road.
I see evidence of fallen rocks,
wonder who saw the falling.
The dash flashes eighty degrees,
but signs in July still caution
“Bridge may ice before road.”
I know oracles hedge their bets,
satisfy fate and unearth the proud
with ambiguity. Sans meteors
and icicles, I dare cross the bridge,
resume the ascent up the steepening
last climb. This final slope
abounded with redundancies—
“Slower traffic keep right,”
“Left lane for passing only.”
Approaching the summit,
I find myself halfway there,
I hug the right, cling to life.
