The dusk soon vanished in to a chill, dark night
which our elderly sedan cut through expertly,
it’s headlamps discovering new trees with
each sweeping turn that we mad around each
smooth country curve.

there were no stars that we could see.
They were there, though, Mr. Hugo assured me,
despite our lack of visual proofs.
I could not deny his theory any more
than he could prove it, however, and
just as well, for then it began to rain.

The droplets came slowly at first, only
bubbling on the surface of our windshield.
Then, all at once, the shower became a downpour
and it was easily classified as torrential.

Mr. Hugo suggested that we retire from the road,
but I insisted that we keep on. After all, I said,
We had no campgear, there were no clearings,
and it was only rain, after all. He shrugged,
as was his way. Alright was all he said.

The downpour soon doubled it’s efforts, and
despite their fervor, our windshield wipers could
hardly take the blur away.
The world became
a wash of looming trees and yellow light,
which I compared off-hand to the reports
of a near-death experience.

Then, the road began to jag.
The road had slicked from the sudden wash,
and though my foot came up so slightly from the throttle,
it was not up quite enough,
and the very next zig had us spinning.

Goddamnit, I heard Mr. Hugo say
and though I fought the wheel there was no use
as we flew from the road and in to a stand of
strong, unyielding Spruce trees, and to what would be,
unfortunately,
Our final digression