Mountain Air

Cool air hits first the face.
Valleys drop
pressure by pressure
as windows slide into the place
of nothing.


Road narrows against the incline,
plugging ears with altitude.
The nervous car
tunnels through the mist.


Under the collar, it sneaks.

The cold inhabits,
slow and gradual,
like those granite peaks


black as crude oil
edged with fresh milk.

By Jerome Kugan

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