Maybe the wind will slow some more so I can catch my breath.
This white out and black ice paint the Midwest.
Waiting for spring for half a year for just a glimpse of sun.
This windchill, I can’t feel my face. Freeway is frozen.
Sun dogs and hoar frost, still blinded looking down.
Dead air of nowhere, break ice to hear the sound.
Don’t sleep on Dakotas.
Take me to when my hands were warm and didn’t feel depressed.
The same thing year after year, the upper Midwest.
Just wait for the northern lights, watch your breath and feel the air.
Take a drive through a tundra night, white knuckles facing fear.
Don’t sleep on Dakotas.
No service and the straightened roads, flyover.
We’re still here.
Flyover.
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