Headlights

(A commentary on global warming)

I.
The glow of a car's headlights
sends a bright streak radiating from the sleekest of trees,
birch and beech and bright.
That's because the trees are wet.
Drenched. Saturated. Soaked to the bone.
My eyes search for the telltale sparkle of snowflakes,
a white blanket to the gray branches.
It doesn't come.
Still, I believe that the glow on the trees is pretty,
and I hate myself for it.

II.
The headlights illuminate the murky road
out in front of us, sloppy and thick and melted.
I wish it were icy.
I'm not ready for a year without a snow day.
Exhaust sprays out behind us in some alluvial fan.
I roll down the window and let my fingers
brush the breeze.
Still, I love the feeling of being that dog,
hair riding the warm-but-should-be-winter-wind.
I love that feeling,
and I hate myself for it.

III.
I've heard the stories.
Too many years ago, the animals would prance
across these melted dirt roads.
When the cars came, they were momentarily stunned.
Then they made the better of it.
Disappeared into the wood, hidden, untrusting.
I wonder if I'll see them again, or if my race,
the human race, has been too cruel.
Oh, well. They'll be
up north, anyway. Escaping the melting should-be-snow.
Escaping the glow of the headlights.