Roadkill

I drove over crimson, glistening, smeared questionables waving grotesquely from the breeze created by semis on their way to the next drop off. Buzzards were circling in the sky, waiting to pick off another piece of rotted whatever-it-was to feed to other little carrion suckers, or more realistically, to sate their own selfish hunger. No matter that whatever-it-was probably had a family waiting back home. The buzzards had their target, struck down by a speeding Ford with a Hemi.

I wondered for a moment if maybe I felt like whatever-it-was at that moment. But then I swerved to miss some other debris, and whatever-it-was became just another red smudge on the highway.