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I hate the plowman. So much.

Plowman.

Driving through snow with the wipers going. I'm sitting in the passenger seat just watching the flurries and my eyes begin to water as if they are actually making contact with the falling flakes.
If I hadn't already memorized the road signs from here to there, I wouldn't have the slightest idea what the "end school zone" sign said. All these familiar signs look awkward covered in winter.
It's one of those scenes where you'd sit in awe at the beauty and elegance that even a highway can possess during an afternoon snowstorm, but the cars ruin it entirely.
It's one of those scenes where you wish civilization wasn't nearly as advanced and the cold towns were close to desertion. Because the tree branches are sagging from the weight of snow and it'd be a gorgeous sight, if there wasn't a six hundred thousand dollar, five bedroom house behind it.

I wonder if the plowman knows that all the neighborhood schoolchildren hate him?

Poetry by kaytee
Read 861 times
Written on 2009-01-20 at 00:44