Ribbons of light slide, weave and vacate
our rear-view mirror.
They take different paths,
halt or pass.
Shadows and points of light
reflect where we’re from,
hint at what we’ve left behind.
These lights may be the counterpart
of good or evil medieval ghosts,
sent by gods
in whose anonymity lies their power,
whose silence permits capricious acts –
collisions, minor or fatal, on the avenue of life –
to pass unremarked and unexplained
as we drive on.
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