santos scribes

it’s labeled a highway, but it isn’t much of one- not really. 

there are no shoulders on the road and the speed limit is only 60 mph- 45 in some stretches even  

and it has just two single lanes; one running east. the other running west. 

it’s named for an Indigenous Tribe and that’s memorable (at least) 

on Monday, I’m driving eastbound on this not really a highway highway  

my mind admittedly elsewhere: pants to return, past due books to drop off, gifts cards to pick up  

and so, it feels adventitious to feel my car begin to break as my eyes roll to the oncoming, westbound lane- like waking up in a place I didn’t fall asleep in. 

something knee-high & four-legged with caramel brown fur is leisurely trotting the toothy gaps between and beside eight stopped cars 

as my slow down continues the white minivan behind me swerves to the imaginary shoulder  

and then stops completely. the black sedan behind them stays in our lane and together we crawl the distance ahead, to the bisecting intersection 

this whole thing happens in less than 30 seconds: I notice the benevolent woman out of her car turns back toward her open car door while two other stopped drivers have opened their own doors in their own valiant attempts to protect & heed the furry wayward wanderer  

by the time I make it to the stoplight, I’m certain the whole thing is an act of DOG* 

: handfuls of strangers- stopped, slowed, swerving their cars, their lives for the life of some self-willed, grinning, otherwise unbothered being they have no vested interest in? 

it doesn’t fix what needs fixing, but it supports my suspicion that left to our own devices  

most of us would do the right thing (at least) most of the time  

and for today, (at least) this is enough.     

about this writing

*the anadrome of god. thanks for reading ! xo, s.