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.
