On Route

When Whitetails are roadkill someone must hurry (I presume they hurry), to pull the carcass off the blacktop. A dead deer makes quite the road bump. It's a sobering thought as I head along the freeway one late, and teeming night. The details of sudden death are so quickly obscured, blood swiftly swished away by the hosing storm. Is there a wreck in a ditch, shredded rubber, broken class - all the diverse debris of a head-long convergence? You presume human remains remain somewhere, one just has to conjecture the best of the outright worst. Behind your rearview mind the unknown is still rushing to clean up all your messy assumptions. Even so, carrion crows still hang from your thoughts.