Above the highway are two birds -- sparrows or finches -- locked in deathfight.  The morning sun lights through the spinning featherball, that is fluttering, sputtering downward.  Too fast falling toward the destruction of traffic.  But the sparrows, or the finches, are intent only on their own murders.  Now my car is there.  Somehow the featherball misses the center of my windshield and rolls upon the air cushion that encases us.  In the mirror I see a car close behind me, but the birds drop and are swept under the front bumper.  Do they rise again from their little double miracle, or are their battle and their bodies just obliterated by the thousand cars behind me?