Grey wad of disjointed something
Barreling toward my face.
Driving on 55 at near seventy.
At point of contact
A sickening Thwap.
Not enough mass for a Thump,
Though the volume of orange pulp
Which issued from your mouth
At point of contact
Indicated otherwise. Perhaps.
I’m sorry, little starling,
For what I did to you.
You are nonnative to these parts.
We didn’t know each other anyway.
I’ll wash my car and move on.
Oh no, what kind of bug was it do you think? I hope to God it was not a bird…