Hail pummeling, dark
windshield unshielding
now quarter-sized,
maybe golf ball—
weakened wipers fighting,
soul-strike after soul-strike
like gunshots
to the spine.
A different person,
another kind of woman
might’ve slowed,
quickly sought cover—
an overpass maybe
or fought for space
at the Buc-cees
diesel pumps.
But she drove unphased
by the ensuing cracks,
accelerated even—
toward the falling
pieces of storm,
knowing the damage
will be striking
in the light.
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