“No Filter”

No Filter

I remember an early fall
and curvy roads on Highway 25.
I remember mist and fading trees,
a crumbling barn, a slanted house
against the mountainside.
I took pictures out the window,
lens filtered for fog.
I remember a sudden storm —
torrents, and gusts juddered
the Datsun side to side.
My windshield blurred
green and yellow like a Matisse.
Tires skidded on wet pavement.
To stop the wild tailspin,
I gripped the wheel, told myself
to steer in the direction of the skid.
I remember trembling like a fawn.
When at last the vehicle stopped,
headlights faced the wrong direction.
Eyes trained to yellow lines,
I drove home through the deluge.
I remember I hugged my child
to my pounding chest.
He was watching Batman,
legs crossed like sticks.
He barely looked up,
oblivious to my shifted view.