Witnesses

Where do they come from?
A flash of white as I speed past.
Or a sprinkling of three or four in the tall grass beyond the guard rail.
Some with faded wreaths or ragged flags.
A note attached, now rain-washed, words running away forever.
I never stop to look for names,
Or asked who had loved them.
Instead, they pass, like someone walking on my grave,
Bringing images of the aftermath,
Of smoking heaps of twisted steel,
Blood and oil flowing on the asphalt.
A gasp of mortal pain.
A final breath.
But now, all's quiet again.
The wind moves the grass as the road bends gracefully.
Only the white crosses remember who was suddenly torn from life,
And watch patiently as you hurtle toward your death.