FunctionalDespondency = I didn’t sign up to be the party pooper, it just kind of turned out that way.

The goose accidently crossed the freeway. His body froze of rushing’s foreign feelings. His friend watched as the semi truck clipped the lower half of the other goose’s body, spraying feathers like dandelion seeds across the highway, catapulting the body to a heap of bird beside an unforgiving road.
“Oh look, how sad.”
“Poor bird.”
“Road kill.”
“Gross.”
Words feign sadness to be polite.
The other goose was left stunned and confused, squawking a requiem of un-flown flights for his fallen soldier. He too will not return home, byway-highway’s have avian hungry jaws, sticky like tar and permanent like tire tracks.
Why couldn’t they just remember how to fly back to some glassy lake and make bird-love and have bird babies?
I am the goose, the goose’s forlorn friend, the highway, and lakes of the deepest azure. I am going to be heartsick forever.