Survival of the Flittest

Driving to work in a machine —
(For a machine) that gives me power,
And in other ways, takes my power;
A machine tuned and perfected
Over a hundred years;
A machine upon which
Cultures have fallen
And cultures have formed —
A red cardinal, tiny and fragile,
Darted across the road
In front of the machine
That drives me.
Panic pulsed through my heart.
“No! I cannot, atop this other grief,
Mourn the death of such beauty,
Such life, to the machine.”
All in a wingbeat
With a twisting flit,
Violent volitation,
And agile ascension,
The organism evaded the machine,
And I held tight to some far off dream.