Bird
A bird hit my windshield today.
The world was turning, as it always does.
They were going that way, I was going this way.
Before it happened, breakfast?
Death was more of a `bump’.
When it comes for me I expect a crash or a scream.
Maybe it will be a `bump’.
This bird was flying so fast and going, where?
To my windshield.
Somehow, at 45 mph, he made a soft bump and softly landed near a cluster of trash cans next to the side of the road in a sad town where drugs and poverty are ruins to something that was once alive, but to the rest of the world is only now what was a bump.