the corner of my eye

I used to love road trips. The thrumming car always set excitement pumping through my veins, and my face was glued to the window for hours on end.

I'd watch the desert streak by in blurs of brown and beige, the cacti filtered pale green like specs of morse code only I could read. An imagination freed, I'd see the colors bleeding from the sky, shaping wings that barely kept pace with my ride.

But that was before it ruined my drive. That black spot hanging off the 45. It startled me from my daydreams. And it had no eyes.