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I live off the edge of a highway. It’s a windy gray morning 
and traffic is light, few commuters, though it’s early 
and word is out that a lake-effect storm will soon be arriving. 

Straight ahead, like angled contrails five white pelicans 
float high, while a line of cormorants speed low 
like dark shiny race cars crossing lanes. 

At the intersection, traffic-lights flash on and off, 
sudden bright sunspots signaling what might be coming: 
an industry of the early-bird-back-to-work force.

Some move South, probably restless, looking 
for more opportunities, some just glide off preferring to take 
the slow exit, to rest in the calm nooks of lakeside suburbia. 

There is sound if you open your window, a spinning 
tire-raucous, a windy siren. It can either rev up your motor
or nudge you to drift like a pelican riding the waves of the day.