My car is an instrument of death. Just a couple of weeks after the bird suicided in my grill, a beautiful dragonfly with bands of black on his otherwise transparent wings, chose to end his life wrapped around my windshield wipers. I shall now describe this poetically. Sort of. A la Emily Dickenson or Sylvia Plath. Death bisected the fly, cleaving head, abdomen and wings from thorax. The wind spirited away the former, leaving the latter waving at me through the windshield like a slender, bony, many-segmented finger. The End.
Posted on: Sat, 24 May 2014 19:51:47 +0000
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