A Sip of Melanchol

6 am. Driving home from Fajr prayer. Feeling the tinge of melanchol that gives rise to soft, sad, self-reflection. Mustang Sally on the radio. "You better slow your mustang down." Yes, maybe I better, but not the car; I am Sunday driver slow. No cars in the neighborhood, no nothing. Then a bird... In a flit, flap, a furious dash, he flashes past, illumined, a handsbreadth from death. I marvel at his audacity. In all the vast and silent space he winged past me, pass my steel and wheel… He did it on purpose.

Dew dries on the window, the rear window.

First writ 18 May 2014 CE in Dayton, Ohio; the morning it occurred.

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