Something gets into all the wild creatures this time of year.
A worm gets in the brain, or maybe the heart, then they come
to the highway to die, hit by a truck or just
stop and spontaneously explode like that. As if they
run madly right to the line and say, That’s
it, this is the end. But probably something more eloquent.
They die either way. Then the vultures. Why is the drive
In so different, so hopeful, rosaries and dreams foxtrotting
across the windshield. The drive home so full of death and sirens.
Why do I give the finger to that infinity plummeting across
lanes past death, why do I always slow and stare at a crash?
I focus now on the roadside, the shadows and trees, imagine a white
deer, a mermaid, a golden apple, anything but a crash. I dream up
wild landscapes, anything, just not vultures.
pikkaheta