Mating Dance

A prose poem about the perils of relationships.

Driving down an empty country road in the early springtime, you're bound to see two birds dancing - a ritualistic mating dance of some kind or another - imperfect loops and circles and all sorts of other irregular, incoherent shapes and patterns. Incoherent perhaps, but incoherent with a purpose. All of this right in front of you; the middle of the road. Of course, they're so distracted with one another, they can't possibly be aware of the two-ton steel missile barreling right for them; at seventy miles an hour, you'll never stop in time. You're certain of their imminent obliteration, except right then, at the very last possible fraction of a second, they split apart. Even more, the mere instant you've passed them, they resume as if you'd never been a threat. A perfect representation of our love; the incessant dancing on the razor's edge of demise.