Getting Lucky

WE HAVE ALL, at one time or another, been the beneficiaries of blessings. Only the most unfortunate among us fail to so benefit, or, having benefited, fail to fully appreciate the blessing. I betook myself to a drive into a country, to a local lake, early on a summer morning to beat the heat, where there are good running trails. The run was delightful, as runs invariably are when run among beautiful scenery of the natural kind. I climbed back into my car, euphoric with runner's high, and headed back to town. As i was tooling down the two lane blacktop going thirty in a fifty to enjoy the scenery, suddenly a small beaver dashed across the highway, right in front of me, and although I didn't have to stop or slow to avoid the precious creature, I die, reflexively. He, she, scampered quickly across the road and into the woods. I smiled. I couldn't recall ever having seen a beaver before, except on television. Within about three minutes a small flock, herd, or school of deer crossed in front of me, again without forcing me to slow down or stop. The group included at least six members, and i made out at leas one doe, a buck I think, and two or three youngins, fawns, or yearlings, or children. I beamed. A bit further along on the four mile country road from my house to the lake, out from the bushes come a family of ducks, a large one followed by three adorable small ones. this time i had to stop suddenly in order to not only not disturb their passage, but to avoid hitting them, which i successfully did. by this time, however,a care had caught up with me, and, in typical American automotive fashion, was following much too close for comfort. Admittedly, that's what happens when you're doing thirty in a fifty, but, I suspect that had I been doing fifty, or fifty five, the same fate would have assailed me, her in the United States of Autosanelessamerica. The driver was man, ostensibly of the red nick MAGA sort, for he, bedecked in one of those nauseating red MAGA caps, being forced to suddenly cease and desist his forward progress due to my do good liberal urge to save the lives of ducks, appeared to be most vexed. He waxed a mite wrathy, as Davy Crockett might have, and often said. His facial expression was death, personified, perhaps exacerbated by the "Impeach Trump" bumper sticker now scarcely three from his hood. I prayed I would neither get shot, nor mugged. If he could have, he would have. But I, ever the assuaging placatin' peacemaker, smiled in my rear view mirror and held my hands out, palms up, in the universal 'what the hell could I do"? sign. Un-mellowed, he rolled his MAGA eyes, sped around me, and on down the road, just missing the last of the chicks. now it was my turn to be bad. suddenly much angered, I honked my horn, and flew the bird, nice and high. His brake lights briefly flashed, and I thought, once again, that I might be toast. But, much to my relief, he thought better of it, and continued on his miserable way, mercifully, for me and american wildlife, out of sight. I had memorized his license plate number. I phone the local police, and told them my tale of woe. I hope they arrest, indict, try, and convict him of gross stupidity, and "lock him up!", as I chanted a few times before arriving at the house. The rest of the was home was uneventful, other than the box turtle I saw halfway across the road near town. Hell yes I pulled over and moved the little doll off road in the direction he was going, willing to incur the wrath of every last hate mongering chanting Trumper in these United States. None of them showed up this time, much to their good fortune.