If you made it home in one piece, you did it right. Don't overthink it; trust your reflexes and insticts.
Requiem to a Road Kill
By Arn Butt Bill
Pre-flight checks performed, tank full, caffeine and granola consumed, I emerge into the inky-black murkiness which is the Florida back-country.
I admire the way the four eyes of the Goldwing scorch through the vagueness of the pre-dawn shadow world. The stark contrast between what’s seen and unseen remind the pilot to use caution; but there is that slightly reckless and wanton feeling of absolute freedom that begs to be released --- to run full-goose, wide open into enveloping shroud of darkness. Green/black/blue images seem to rush by on both sides as if they, not I, are the ones moving.
There are no cars on U.S. 27 at oh-dark-thirty. Barely glimpsed by peripheral vision, I imagine that there are sets of eyes looking out at me from the ominous backdrop; this is the Wild Land, populated by primitive things that crawl, hop, and slither. I am here by their permission and I relish the opportunity to escape from the constraining boundaries of Humanity.
I set the auto-pilot to warp 8 or so, tune in an Alan Jackson hit, and relax into the cocoon created by Diamond and Cee Bailey. I seem to float in a private universe which is intensely HERE AND NOW. I am immersed in the Zen experience where Man and Machine are One; the very definition of the age-old expression, “If I had to explain it, you wouldn’t understand.”
Then, very suddenly, the mysterious eyes are there, to the side of me, in front of me, under me. Then, they are gone forever.
One must consider that the lesser species of our planet are ill-equipped to contend with a massive beast such as the Goldwing; Mother Evolution has not allowed them to catch up yet. In this classic display of survival of the fittest, my noble steed has emerged victorious; one of God’s creatures lay dead, simultaneously filling and creating a void in the great circle of life.
“Ashes to ashes; dust to dust.”
What inspired or provoked young Peter Rabbit to dash out into the unknown? What could possibly motivate the fluffy quadruped to take that leap? Was he hungry? Was a predator chasing him? In my imagination I see the older rabbits chiding the young rodent: “Go ahead and run, Peter; are you a Jack-Rabbit or a Bunny?” Then in some rite of passage, Peter takes his chance but fails.
Alas, Peter is a Cottontail no more. My Kury peg and Gore-Tex boot hardly bore witness to the event. I alone must tell this tail.