Leaf clad branches wave,
black against the grey light
of an approaching 
morning.

I am wound with words,
enchained and given wings, both.
Words wound, but no words, (silence),
wound more.

Grey monstrous ghosts lurk
beyond the edges of the map,
while winds blow me
away from my home.

My GPS, set to “No tolls, No highways”,
is failing,
circling me through
detours and closed roads.

I drive through fog,
alert only to the back-up beeping
of warnings 
and blockages.

This old sideroad,
formerly a highway,
might be allowing me to approach
a new morning.