A Symptom of What, Dear Sociologists?

They thought, perhaps, it was
just their imaginations or
an age-related condition, but
the snowbirds remembered
no less authorities than
Click and Clack, the Tappet
Brothers, who spoke of the
crazies on the highways.
Each day when those little
birds go out and drive in
the city that rises like a
big bird each winter from
the ashes of seemingly
interminable, summer desert
heat, they hear sirens and,
most often, see accidents —
some of the carnage looking
like a huge bird having descended,
crashed and burned into ashes;
they tick off the consecutive
days of experiencing one
or both like watching
a string of victories or,
more at it, consecutive
defeats by a sports team.
It is what no sports
team ever accomplished —
an unbroken streak of
every day for four
winter months each year
for ten years running —
this, of course, in a city
of six million, but even
back home with the small
city numbering thirty-three-
thousand mostly, conservative
law-abiding folk the
irrational, erratic and
down-right crazy
driving is driving them
crazy. They wonder
when sociologists are
going to wake up
and study why. They
know it has to have
occurred to those
sociologists as they,
too, must brave the
brave new world of
insanity on the roadway.

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