Journey on a Rainy Night

 I wrote this poem several years ago after a long, wet drive my family and I made up Hwy 441 to my parents house in Fargo, GA

Journey on a Rainy Night Raindrops splat onto the windshield. Shattering into tiny beads, they run a race at breakneck speed towards the window’s edge. The oncoming traffic’s headlights, diffused by the downpour, elongates into vertical shafts of light that frolic across the glass as the approaching car draws nearer. The darkness is alive with the music of wetness. Our tires whirl on the oil and water-slick asphalt sending a steady hum upwards through the floorboard. The incessant swish of the wiper blades serenades us as soothingly as a lullaby. Loud pops of the raindrops, hitting solidly against the glass, adds percussion to the rainy road song. We barely speak--- ensconced in our own thoughts and our warm womb of metal and glass. Familiar melodies of our youth flow from the radio and swirl about us as we hurtle through the damp darkness. The landscape outside is obscure and gloomy. Our headlights throw muted shadows on the forest that flanks the highway. The trees’ silhouettes suggests towering monsters just beyond the roadside, with arms outstretched to welcome the downpour. Their thirsty leaves lap the falling moisture. Faint lights of distant houses shimmer like a mirage. Their halogen yard lights glow golden, resembling fallen stars suspended a few feet above the earth. As we speed along our journey the sea of darkness is broken by occasional islands of illumination. A gas station,  a truck stop gleaming brightly with enticing offers of hot coffee, sticky doughnuts, and sweet chocolate. The showers slow to a drizzle. Lulled, we shut off our wipers. A fine mist, as sheer and delicate as Irish lace, settles easily onto the glass. The distortion renders the landscape foreign. We surrender to its opaque power and the wipers once again dance to a familiar, syncopated beat. Occasional signposts, made incandescent by our beams, herald upcoming towns: Worthington Springs, Lake City , Fargo. Our journey lessens with each mile we speed along the drenched ebony asphalt ribbon. We race steadily onward, our radials singing a sloppy, wet road melody, as they hurry us towards our destination---home. Rose S. Williams~2005 ©Southernstoryteller