Speed Fines Double

I drive down a winding riverside road, listening to traditional Japanese instrumental music to drown out any stress that might have preceded this particular moment. Nothing matters anymore but the scathing sunshine burning my arm skin through the driver’s side window.

My crow was eating something much bloodier.

A crow takes too long getting off the road as I approach, interrupting its midday meal. Crows are the dogs-under-the-dinner-table of our roadways. They eat whatever we drop. In the last few weeks, I've noticed dead porcupines, groundhogs, skunks, squirrels, mice, deer, and - most peculiarly - a crow corpse in the middle of the tiny, two-lane highway.

Since when do corvids get hit by cars? Aren’t they the cleverest birdbunch of them all? I always feel as though they're smarter than me. For a second, the dead crow reminds me of my mortality, in a way that no other roadkill dares to do.

The two-lane highway becomes a one-laner more often than anyone would like. Construction happens out of necessity, and depending on where you are, occasionally out of contractual spite. In spite of construction, though, people need to move. Quickly down highways, into town before work starts or stores close. At the mercy of the folks holding signs.

The traffic controller people need to be accredited in order to wield such power. They've got a lot on their shoulders (mostly sun), and I trust them. Once I was stuck for 20 unexpected minutes waiting for a traffic controller to turn their sign. I couldn't see past the school bus in front of me to know what was going on; I just turned off the car and drank tons of water as I watched a lady watch the line of stopped cars in front of her as she chain-smoked on her porch.

The houses pop out at me from both sides, appearing around curves. Bearing signs like "BABY QUILTS,” “Fresh Eggs - $4” and “ToyS For SAlE.” A ship named “Southerly Sacrifice” glowers in red and black, nose pointed at the road. Accusatory, but welcoming, as I imagine a vampire might greet me at their doorstep.

The meditative Japanese garden music cuts out after two minutes, and I shrug internally. I don't need it. But it's worth noting that there's no data here. If I need anything, or don't know where I'm going, I'll have to ask for help, or turn around and head for home. More likely, I'll sit in silence with my toes near the water and pen in hand, still as a heron awaiting its next catch.