It would be a landscape painting, otherwise.
Expanse of snow. Sky, unfinished, the color of canvas,
Night dirtying its edges. A picture framed by a windshield,
Seen through scratched glass. The tongue-shaped patch
Where the car was, the pools of red its tail-lights cast...
Nothing to mark the way the view recedes; the scene is shapeless,
Indistinct. It makes its way towards dark.
Far back, beyond the lot, a boy in silhouette takes one last shot.
The ball, in perfect arc, won't touch the rim. There is no net.
By the time the silence breaks, you'll be on the road,
And gaining speed. But in this last look back, your glance
Catches the boy in motion, in solitary light,
And turns the scene into a portrait.