Driving Home: A Point
Tonight, up our winding dirt road crossed by fog curtains, my oldest son practiced driving. Essentially skilled, he began tremulously and finished like a Nascar racer. Thus, with Apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson and one of my favorite poems “The Eagle:”
Is This Legal?
He grasps the wheel with crooked hands,
Close to his mom in lonely lands,
Ignoring all her careful plans.
The wrinkled road before him calls;
He grabs the clutch… and stalls.
Then, like a thunderbolt, he hauls………….!