Street Crossing

In the years of the pandemic,

there has been an increase of accidents,

an increase in the deaths of pedestrians.

Researchers attribute it to restlessness,

the native state we all return to when left by ourselves.

I nearly struck a coyote on the way home,

driving fast because I was carrying dinner

and I could smell the steaks, mashed potatoes, and green beans.

In between the tail lights ahead

and the too white led glow of my headlights,

a slow motion dash,

a full length stretch of the gray glory,

thick and luxuriant winter coat,

effortless even in its swiftness.

Plastic, metal, and glass might have kissed its rump,

if I had not pressed hard on the brake,

hearing the chocolate mouse collide with the passion fruit tart.

All business and purposeful.

There must be a reason to cross the street between two passing cars.

My childhood is littered with

the carcasses of dogs that were lost to cars.

I want a car that emits a continual high pitched howl

seeking out canines streaking across asphalt streams,

calling them up out of their stance

into poses of ponderous caution.

Past the edge of the road,

light falls away,

color returns to fur,

darkness envelops the forest, and the creatures, and the earth.

What for me is a memory,

is for the coyote just a receding sound fading into the cold.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog