Carol Smallwood

The highway’s a reflecting pond—
red and green lights sport a holiday
air under the dance of wipers.

Mushroom umbrellas satisfy,
as do lighted signs under
sky scratched by tree limbs.

Utility lines battle caution
lights in greasy air while
moods change.

Not being able to see your own
headlights you assume they also
intrude.

Leaving, the town fades
and you follow tail lights
before they disappear.