It was too late to brake, impossible to swerve – what bird-brained philosophy made it plod on oblivious, as if it had its mind on higher things and wasn't to be disturbed? Bottle-green head, cheeks wattled red, neck stretched forward like it was pulling against a leash, turning an indifferent eye, deaf ear to my horn. It was one of those times when the future is suddenly certain, or there is no future, when there's nothing to do but hold course – and I thought of you on a strange road leaning into a bend, that day a pheasant from nowhere flew across your front wheel; and felt like some avenging angel.