It's A Bird... It's A Plane...

Sometimes when I drive down 322 or 100 or 113 or I-76, I get stuck in traffic. I drum my fingers on my steering wheel and stare into the other cars through my window.

Where are you headed, stranger?

Each taillight flashing in the dark as they stop, go, another story.

And sometimes, when I'm returning home by plane at night, I look down, and wonder how on Earth there could be so many people I don't know. How many of their life stories have been heard? (I get a headache at that point, and take a pill).

And at the end of the day, they are nothing more than glints of light flickering like the candles on a birthday cake, and I am still in the tiny bird-like machine that children point up to in wonder.