|empty bridge last summer|
Then, the truck.
It came by so fast, horn blaring. The driver, pumping his fist (or is that how a trucker honks the horn?)
Oh!-- the trucker is supporting the march, honking like crazy to say yes, yes.
Thoughts in a crisis are so weird, non-linear, and simultaneous. So many thoughts, ricocheting off one another. No, no, there are people. He's going to hit the people.
Marchers flew over the fence and we all ran. People who'd been on the road were shrieking, traumatized. And then there were motorcycles. I've heard only one news report mention them. They came from the opposite direction--the more crowded side of the interstate, actually. Two neon yellow ones and a black one, going a hundred miles an hour. How they didn't hit anyone, I don't know. Two miracles. No one killed by the truck. No one killed by the motorcycles.
The rest of the evening was a mix-- marvel of relief that no one died, wafting clouds of tear gas, and lots of law enforcement.
Is the world being held together by fury and anguish or torn apart by it? It's hard to tell.
|my tomato plant, state troopers, and Minneapolis police|