In the Shadow of the Foothills

A chill frost crusts the morning grass

And forms an impenetrable shell on my windshield

I dread the cold and the wet and 

the burning pain in my hands

I could scrape the glass clean and have it done

Or let the defroster work and have another cup of coffee

I drink a second cup of the bitter brew 

in the shadow of the foothills

I drag the week’s trash down the treacherous drive

To the curb, for pickup

As the sun crests the mountain,

It sets fire to the frozen particles 

Clinging to the trash can

A million dazzling glints on the black

And I welcome the sparkling flame of morning.