The mothers roar
Soothes the baby
The purr like snore
There is no rusing.
Asleep at the wheel burnt out, worn thin by long stretches.
This utopia is so cold in the winter time. Baked in a cloth interior fraying.
The serpentine streets.
Along highway.
Snowflakes land and make it beautiful, till it homogenizes and eventually melts back to the mud.
