*
*
*
Images Seen From a Passing Car Window
I.
This is an image so brief it appears still:
a crow, its small its small black body
distinct against the overcast sky--
the same gray as the cinder-block wall
on which it perches, its feathers made
bright by the cacophony of colors—
the neon blue of the Arco behind it and
the lampish red of the Chinese restaurant
next-door—aided by the lights of the
cars, like ours, rushing around Watt
and Alta Arden—on their way to work,
(or, like my father and me, on their way
to dropping kids off at school)--battling
the subtle hues of blue and purple
shimmering in its feathers and proud beak,
yet still resolutely dark as shadow.
How can a sight so brief be burned so
vividly behind my eyes after all this time?
II.
The car's passing is swift as it is dramatic:
looking up from where I sit in the shadow
of the empty building across from my school
(the one that used to be a bingo parlor),
I catch a momentary glance of the occupants
as the beat-up car eases over the speed-bump.
This fleeting glimpse reveals a man, hunched
over the steering wheel in an anxious panic,
and next to him, the woman, who instantly
commands my vision: copper dreadlocks pulled
back from her forehead, drops of perspiration
adorning her puffing face, tilted down to where
her hands clutch the curve of her belly—
in and then . . . out; that is as long as it lasts,
this flash of air taking them away, along with
an entire life I will never witness.
III.
I'm not sure how this fits into anything:
a moth, fluttering up a slope the same
color as its beating wings—much like
the levees that border the nearby river,
but this one is instead topped by train-
tracks, so I know this must be near where
the train passes by Sac State, though I
cannot say which street, exactly, my
mother was passing down when I saw
through the passenger-side window
this tiny insect flying up the hill, seen
not even for a second, before distance
and time make it disappear from sight.
IV.
Am I the only one that does this?:
walking down the street, or waiting
at the corner for some light, watches
not just the passing cars—different
colors and varied makes—but tries,
futily, to study the faces of the people
driving, the passengers, trying to capture
not just the features of their face—
colors of hair and skin and clothes,
structures of nose and cheek and eyes,
both beautiful and ugly—but guess at
the story, the entire life, of this person
I will never know.
Of course, to them, I am, at best, one
pedestrian among many, roadside
scenery, unnoticed; but I long to capture
them like a photograph, hold up these
images of every passing car to the light
and say, “Here is time conquered
and beauty contained.”
***
![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
pleased
content
contemplative
surprised
sick
blah
productive