There was a car wreck down on one-sixteen.
The next day all we saw was scattered bits of glass
strewn like rhinestones across the road,
skid marks, twisted angrily, and the grass
at the side was beaten down
like a hand had held it there all night.

No signs of death, though death there was,
no lingering feeling in the morning air
indicating what had happened there,
only the bright blue morning sky,
the redwoods standing, the corner store,
the traffic moving by,
the school bus stopping,
. . . . a drifting hawk.

The next day all the glass is gone
and the grass is straight again.