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  • Matthew Bromschwig

Just Driving

Driving North through the mountainous crag on a cold February afternoon.

Snow falling from the sky hits the ground as graceful as an expert gymnast nailing the landing of multiple backflips in a row. Rising along the mountainside, my ears starting to


almost almost like a cold, glass Snapple bottle's cap after being turned for the first time would.

Looking to my left at the base of the mountain is a small town. The smoke billowwing from the chimneys of the houses appeared to have the consistency of cotton candy yet the force of a bull traversing a china store as it rose into the atmosphere. Turning back to the slick mountainous road I check my GPS. I'm almost there.

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