23 - windshield

[I recently moved all my creative writing onto my new computer and while doing so found this unposted poem. I don't remember when exactly I wrote it, but it was sometime in 2013 and on a Friday, since I remember writing it just before a drum lesson. It was inspired by this Huffington Post article about a picture posted to Reddit of a turtle that had gone through a car windshield. The turtle reportedly survived and the picture is not as gruesome as it sounds, but out of respect for more sensitive readers, I won't post the picture here. It's in the link.] 
---

isn’t that the way it

always happens –

every life

every death

every

epiphany that will make you

decide to move to

another continent

you

are crossing the street and

thinking of nothing in

particular,

not because you

are callous and don’t care about

climate change or healthcare or the rising cost

of education, but because

your brain, though older

than all of these things

has never

evolved to share such

concerns –

nor needed to

so you

are crossing the street, thinking

of nothing in particular

only smelling the

dandelions you

will devour

in some immeasurable

future,

knowing

without knowing that

a river waits

for you, several

minutes yet ahead

and it will welcome you with

cool and rushing arms

and a great

roaring thing for which

you have no name

charges,

makes contact with

your body

and send you into

the air

for a moment

you mimic your ancient cousin, who

from the same

scaly ancestor took

to the sky and not

the river

you know this cousin

you know what you

are not

and then there is

the embrace of a

pane of glass

The cracks that

make a halo around

your body

are as waves

in blue

water