By Peg Quinn
Driving south to L.A., colors fade
as yawning light drenches the landscape
Greens receded to grays
Rounding a curve, a row of taillights
define the side of mountain
A silver train, tilting, strains the track,
rumbling past
While the distant city glows hills into
flat shadows as we speed into night’s
dark palette
Peg Quinn has a B.F.A. in Education from the University of Nebraska and is a visual artist and educator. Her poetry and creative non-fiction have been published in numerous journals and anthologies and three-times nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her debut book, Mother Lode, was published by Gunpowder Press in 2021. Also by this poet: "A Note of Thanks" and "What Lies Behind the NO TRESPASSING Sign"