Interstates

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 By Ron. Lavalette

The crow, apparently ravenous for the unrecognizable splat of highway carrion, does not budge from its feast, despite the near passage of a barreling fourteen-wheeler in the adjacent lane. The truck’s driver barely notices the banquet as he flashes by, his mind on his destination, his eyes scanning for radar cops or construction cones. The truck itself, intent on only its task of hauling weight and displacing the air it moves through, has no sentience; cares neither for the beast it carries nor the beasts it passes. It’s June, at last, and everything beside the highway’s grey is green.

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