One Way to Reconstruct the Scene

The moon, through light snow, between the trees,
distorted by the broken glass, looked blue,
almost the color of the girl’s blue dress,
or the man’s eyes. The car came to rest
against the large maple forty yards from the road,
bisecting the angle of the slow curve beyond the bridge.
The girl was thrown free. She lay as if asleep
against the tree, her hands in her lap.
Perhaps she was dreaming. The man was still
behind the wheel, his hand to his head, a cup
of blood spilled over his yellow shirt. The brake
pedal was pushed all the way through the floorboard.
It was winter. A light snow fell past her window.
She had been waiting for hours. When he came
she had fallen asleep. She dreamed she was dreaming.
He whispered and she awakened. She smiled.
They sat watching snow fall through the trees,
the moon move slowly across the sky. They spoke.
He knew the road by heart. His father had helped
to build the bridge. They were speaking softly together.
The faint blue light reflected from the snow
as it fell slowly through the trees made the blue
of her dress bluer. They did not speak of the night,
no doubt they hardly noticed. There was nothing to know.
It happened without warning. There, suddenly,
outlined in the dark like an animal only visible
when it turns to let you see its eyes, a shape
of something insubstantial cut off his view
as he started to turn, beyond the bridge, just
into the long slow curve. He tried to blink it back.
The girl in the blue dress leaned against the tree.
She seemed to be sleeping. The man remained in the car,
upright, his blue eyes open. Light snow fell slowly
through the barren limbs of the tree above the car.
The moon moved across the sky. It cast a light blue
reflection on the scene, the snow, the broken glass.