not a poem, but a profile thing that is poetic

I've got a nine hour drive ahead of me and the radio's saying thunder showers all day, the whole ride down. The New York state throughway is flying by me on either side, not that I drive fast, and my attention floats between the cars ahead, the cars behind, and the little yellow and purple flowers bobbing their heads as the rain hammers them. The grey sky brings out the technicolor richness. The clouds are moving in herds across the horizon. I haven't skipped through the songs on the CD player, just let album bleed into album. I shouldn't be so broken hearted over this, but I know it will take me a few weeks to shake off the grief. I feel as though someone just swatted a fledgling who fell from the nest, killing it before it even had the chance to sing. I'm such a dreamer to think I could have saved this bird when it had such a faint heartbeat and its first feathers started falling out in my hands.