When the Smoke Clears

This morning I awoke to rain. I had decided to sleep in a little bit then try to sneak in some gym time and laboratory time. After getting ready and heading out the door, glass of water on the table so I wouldn’t make the same mistake of the other week, I started down the dirt roads leading to the highway, gravel crunching and splashing in the mud. The sky held the breath of light but was a dusky blue as if it had been colored by a small hand that finally found an azure crayon at the bottom of a communal box, the grays and blacks and burnt siennas taking their toll on the purity of the hue.

Cresting at the top of the other side of the draw to the road along the ridgeline, I could feel the tires start to spin. Less gas, less effort and they found purchase on the road, taking me over the rise.

This startled a small bird scratching for seed in the muck. He took flight, away from the Jeep, flying forward in a panic along the track. I maintained a slow speed but the bird stayed in front of my vehicle, wings beating a frantic escape.

The road, lined on both sides with stands of pine and oak, provided the only egress the bird could see. He followed it, even rounding curves and turning left at a junction where I turned right, never once remembering he could fly up and away. He didn’t need to stay on the path made by others, he had a freedom to go wherever he pleased, a freedom I envy, but his reaction to the stress of the moment was to keep following the trail that was never made nor appropriate for the likes of him.

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