This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order. 

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 iridescence

something wet.

A hawk, I judged

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

at rush hour.

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, died instantly.

Which is how we console ourselves

- “instantly”,

no pain, no warning.

Death, dropped into our path

from a clear blue sky.

Like everything else has done

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.