From a bug, for example, on the door of a car.
My husband has a ’73 Mustang in need of a paint job. It used to be gold. Strike that, it used to be the color of a bug. We didn’t know it used to be the color of a bug until the bug showed us.
If only it were a Volkswagen, the symbolism would be perfect. Wait. That’s a beetle. Nevermind.
Drive Thru
I’ve seen too many insects die that way
with whirring wings that weren’t quick enough
to shear the wind. I’ve seen lean swallows stray
into my path, ride turbulence too rough
for my smooth mammal body to withstand.
But some slow few lie crumpled on the tar
like feathered caps. I’ve seen the furry bands
that stripe a raccoon’s tail hang from a car,
an inadvertent trophy for their aim.
But still I drive. The horrors of the cross
between man-made and nature are the same
if I should see or not. So I’ll engross
myself in speed when bright mosquito blood,
if theirs it is, lies specking on the hood.
I love this poem, Julie…I really do.
I hate those damn racoon tails…I hit a squirrel once, accidently, with the ambulance, and I started to pull over immediately…my partner asked me what I was doing and I started crying. He reminded me that we were on our way to a call and I quit crying and continued driving..but I cried again later when I got home.
I’m not even crazy about splattered bugs on the windshield.
Lo, your blog hates me! If I leave a comment, I get a nasty letter telling me how my email bounced.
But I’m glad you like this poem. I’m wishy-washy about it. But I’m devastated by running over animals. It’s horrifying to me.