Cement Trucks

In the end it was too slow, afflicted by either age or illness or simply distracted, flew head first into the eye of a headlight. Flung contorted, neck bent back, snapped of life, it died clumped on a verge. Rewound to its first flight, its brief existence traced untold scribblings across time and the space stretched between these tall trees. No record remains. A full stop is placed here on this muddy shoulder, the end to something which, only a moment ago, flickered through the circuits of a living brain. It leaves nothing but a small hole and progeny ignorant of history. Whatever flowering form that bloomed here grew in the blind reaches beyond knowing, no more than a short awakening programmed by its kind, an expendable part fed into the machinery through which all life churns. Chance had my way intersect this point and dab thought upon thought to stem the bleed. No balm soothes the wounds of this crumpled mess. Cement trucks rumble by moved by the need to fill an empty space, as these words try to do.