The road glistens, like a mirror in some places, for the yellow trees above. With the window cracked, people listen to our music as they pass. Eavesdrop fragments of our conversation. Another sort of mirror. The words of other people when they think no one is listening. Rained all night. The road is glistening. Cars are ripping sheets of paper driving past. Shushing soggy leaves. Gone. Dry in one day of sunshine and dust rises from the dirt road. The whole landscape flushes like a commode, and weeks of rain does what water does best. It moves on. In autumn, leaves dream of being flowers and take on such vibrant colors, and petal upturned as they faint and fall in turn. Laying down carpet like middle aged men with stained rock hands.

It rains for days and the world never even thinks to apologize for it. Mean old world. Cold. Mouthy. Always tent flapping yapping black bird wing clapping branch snapping firelight and hot chocolate when you need it sappy. Sweet things. Mean words. Sour apologies turned sweet wine by time. North country. Water town. Rain cloud crowns. And cold upstate royalty. Hard ice loyalty. Turned summertime thaws. Winter snows. But rain falls. And roads glisten.
And the iron trees dress up in colors bright as flowers.