Roadside

Curbside are snapshots of revelation they invoice the passing as stations upon a cross, or rosary beads from the corners of hard driven eyes. We count the faces of onlookers like cars for they count us not, or may enter our speeding vehicles as flashes of sunlight upon glass. Roadside, is a rotting log sporting small dainty flowers amid exhaust fumes. Roadside, both the living and killed turn in a part glimpsed mobile reflecting our own brief leaving. We move too fast to see it all, layers return as later onlookers when the car ticks warm and parked. There is a strange abashment in speed, a tomorrow-ness in the momentary watch of those we pass. The world becomes a known stranger met on the tip of hastily thrown spear. We distracted tourists drive into the heart of questions. Mind intones our place in time, a fresh moment we have yet to arrive at, one in which we did not crash and burn in - just yet, and tomorrow waits to begin another new odyssey.