I sit and stare out the window bare, and watch the trucks fly by.
The trees move back and forth with all the winds force as a storm passes over high.
The rains pelt down upon the ground like pins against the glass, Word is winters here at last.
Up on 40 the truckers talk of snow high on Donner's pass, while down on 10 the word is ice is setting in were the rain has fell at last.
Hear the bear report, check your speed, sorry Smokie you can't have me. C.B. crackles with the words a acceindent has accured. Shift of gears, hear the breaks as the highway slows it's pace.
Some poor soul didn't hear the C.B's warning and the winters hazards have caught another.
Now the rubber neckers stop in morning.
michelle y, kelley
12/25/06
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