I never rode
in rain like that
in dark like that
on roads like that

heading out of Deadwood
me and my baby
up through the pass
and down to Cheyenne Crossing
there after midnight.

There's truth in rain so heavy
it gets behind your eyeballs
and drenches your brain

washing away petty concerns
leaving only the clarity
of life and death.

You can't see anything but black
and the periodic washed out traces
of yellow and white lines
defining the edge
of the road.

We rode up into the storm's womb
into fog like cold pudding
into the clouds

where on good days
the speed limit's 35
the trucks have to use low gear
and there's curves you can't manage easy
any faster then 20.

All I cared about
was not fucking up
and driving off a cliff

so that when the sign for the turnoff
eventually reared up in the sodden gloom
it was an awful lot
like when you make it home from a night out drinking
and know
you beat the inevitable
yet again.

My sweetie built a fire
hot enough to make the sap run
in them old wooden wall boards
and we huddled down into the covers,
catching our breath,

grateful
for love
and life
and the dry warmth
of an old cabin.

It quit raining right about then,
but that's the way it always goes.

The next day
the streams were swoll
and the chance of forest fire
was about as low as it gets
there in August
in the Black Hills.

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