Crossing (December)

December stops at the highway for ceaseless gear change. One moment your mind’s a thousand thoughts to manage, now cannot think a thing of its own. Cars, vans, unstoppable minibuses race through green spectre, 80+kpm precision. Their drivers don’t see you, your dog, or an aged woman arrived at the crossing. Is it like this forever in meteorite showers? It’s nothing you can reach out and touch. Press the button. The mind must wonder how it got to this, traffic’s infinite vanishing point, its mindless sound. You take a minute’s non-thought, then a mechanic bird tick-tick-ticks the seconds to walk.