December Sunday

The drive to and from work
on a dreary December Sunday
when the world has died or
at least gone into a deep slumber.

The tall weeds and slender trees
flow by gray-brown and naked
while flocks of birds fly from
place to place listless and cold.

A time to be alone and enclosed in
my shiny red box, coming or going,
a peaceful bit of purgatory before
reaching either heaven or hell.

***