I hear the raspy cackling
of the near-frozen chickadees

as I floor it,
looking for a destiny;

I see her there,
in my sights:

momentarily motionless,
the day's mail in her hand,
as she struggles to see
what is approaching;

but it is too late,
and the collision unstoppable;

and a billion tiny shards
of cruelty and bitterness
fly up into the air
as she disintegrates,
with the shards finding homes
in fertile soil;

sadly, a hundred years from now,
those shards will have spawned
more like her, for another
generation to abide;

but for now, at least,
she is no more,
and the chickadees
start to thaw.

January 5, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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