With those Cheyenne blues again.
Don't you just love winter driving in WYO?
Since I just came from a literary event in Rock Springs, it's only appropriate to revisit a poem by one of that city's fine poets. Here's a sequence from Barbara Smith's poem "Interstate 80:"
...even if you drive the same forty miles
morning and night to work
and know every pimple on the lady's ass
every curve or incline
you could drive it in your sleep or blind
like you do half of the time in January anyway
whiteout white knuckle terror
braced against the blast of triple trailers
whipping like rattlers in the ruts.
This road will give you religion, mister.