Alone in my ’76 Mustang, glued to the infectious beat
and enticing lyrics of Radar Love,
my hand slaps the dusty red dashboard.
I am twenty years old and this is a fine summer day.

A splash of salmon atop a dark green shell
is visible a quarter mile down the road.
Turtles move slowly and this one is no exception.

A sanctuary of prairie sage marshland
lies just inches away
alongside this quiet stretch of blacktop.

I wonder
if he can reach safety
before our impending impact.

Nobility, however, gives way to a reluctant curiosity.
Accelerating, I bear down
with only the slightest hesitation,
my trajectory in perfect alignment with his asphalt 20.

A nauseating yet strangely satisfying crunch.

Continuing north, I drive toward town
to pick up a few groceries
for the upcoming 4th of July weekend.