Odds
Sept 5 2009


A bird flew into the car.
As if shot from a gun,
no one saw it coming.
Even at cruising speed
its airy body
— hollow-boned, plumage puffed —
did not dent the metal;
just a smudge
of iridescent feathers,
something wet.
A hawk, I think
wheeling in the tricky breeze,
its telescopic gaze
distracted
by a flicker of prey
in the underbrush.

So our intersection
in time and space
was as improbable as falling frogs.
As the man who took a bullet to the heart,
stopped
by his pocket Bible.
As future lovers
bumping into each other
on a crosswalk at rush hour,
in the tide
of human bodies.

Which happens all the time.
The unlikely, not impossible;
no need of divine intervention.
And all those others we brushed against,
conveniently forgotten.

The bird, of course, instantly died.
Which is how we console ourselves
— “instantly”,
no pain, no warning.
Death, dropped into our path
from a clear blue sky.
Like everything else does
looking back;
as if all of it was planned
to perfection.



This poem is about magical thinking; about the illogic to which the human brain is prone.

Things like selective memory and confirmation bias (paying attention to the things that confirm our preconceptions and prejudice; and conveniently ignoring all the rest.)

Things like the misattribution of cause and effect.

Things like the inductive reasoning we use to make sense, looking back.

Things like our intuitive misunderstanding of probability and dumb coincidence.

Because our genius -- the unique ability of the human brain -- is to seek out patterns, to make meaning. Which, in my opinion (admittedly, the opinion of a rigorous skeptic and confirmed atheist) is what leads to magical thinking, to superstition, to religious faith. And we've all seen where that eventually leads: Crusades, Jihad; the Promised Land.