Eastbound I 70

Eastbound I-70

Traffic is bumper to bumper, racing along at a breakneck speed.
Like everyone else, I press on the gas pedal and hope for the best.
I see it, everyone does, and like everyone else I zip past, pretending not to notice.
The coyote is dead, rotting in the hot summer sun.
What good will it do to think on it now?
The deed is already done.

The next day I fly past it.
In my haste, I cast a wayward glance.
There is less of it now.
But, it's still there.
And it is still dead.

A week passes.
I sate my morose curiosity and hazard a moment to stare.
Today, there's no traffic, so there's nobody to balk at my slower pace.
It's still there...sort of.
All that's left of it is a bit of rust colored fur.
The vague outline of bones housed in a bag of moldering flesh and left over pieces that not even the buzzards will devour.

I realize I have witnessed a miracle.
Not the miracle of life or of death.
The coyote ate, and was eaten in turn.
Such is the way of things.
No, this is much more than flesh yielding to death and death fostering life.
The miracle, the real one hidden behind the splotch of stained pavement, is that the coyote ever existed at all.

I accelerate, my rearview mirror captures the scene and then it is gone.
Jaded, I forget about it.
After all, it's nothing more than a carcass decaying on the side of the road.