Sheets of rain fall sideways,
Rushing toward us as we rush toward them
at a speed that borders on irresponsible or reckless.
They splatter on the windshield,
almost overwhelming our wipers.
It’s almost fun, the danger so present, flying around the winding roads
in such a maelstrom.
I like to pretend we are interstellar explorers,
winding through a wormhole
on our way to unknown worlds
and unprecedented discoveries.
The signposts indicate worlds already explored,
mapped and settled by pilgrims long ago.
We seek a world where none have gone before,
a place to call our own,
to name it and discover it’s idiosyncrasies,
becoming so closely associated with it that
we are indistinguishable from it.
This world will be ours.
But only if we can survive the journey through these
and other travelers.