There is jubilation getting through Grants Pass and over the Siskiyous. We blink our eyes randomly, we blink away the burning, sprinkle in a few more blinks as if blinking is nothing more than handful of sage or crushed grass thrown nonchalantly into the brew. The snowflakes rise up, once again against the pot lid of sky. Just above our heads, darkness. And then we start down. It's in the coming down, the truck bending over the crest, wet rooster tails, the jake brakes, the whole pot boils over. Not a few flakes, it's a half ton spew. Head to foot yellow slickers, lamps that light whole stadiums, leaning forwardd into a gale, men stop every vehicle. The interstate is closed. The interstate is closed. We only look out the window, you in your seat, me in mine. Through the soles of our feet, the sway of air in the seats, we touch the tracking of eighteen wheels. We keep our eyes wide open. Finally there is an exit and off the exit is a chaos of trucks where the snow has leveled the ditches and potholes and parking lines are the memory of a joke. The truck turns off. We stretch out on the bunk, layers of down. In the morning. the sun seeps across the sky.