It looked like the rock faces were weeping
waterfalls in the artificial valley
created by I-65, geological eras bisected bare.
One windshield wiper slapped air,
rain so heavy it fell in blinding buckets. 
I’d driven in all kinds of ill-advised situations before.
During a blizzard for sub sandwiches.
The one dirt road, a minefield of potholes.
Through literal rivers, foolish and young,
in a car so light, a stiff breeze shook the roof. 

In the rain and dark, we drove close to each other,
illuminated by dashboards and taillights, clutching
our wheels–eyes fixed ahead on the long path home. 
It wasn’t til we’d passed the storm, south and east,
where the hills I love cut the thunderhead down.