The bee thought it might be dying. On his last wing. Then he saw a light in the darkness of the dense night. The bee hovered in mid flight to see this miracle unfolding before him. The light, from all visible direction but the blind side before him was to evolve in countless mutations until frontal vision was achieved.
The bee felt a bliss of the rushing air. It was a kindly vacuum sucking him into the now larger; brighter light.
The crest of the head light, with its flattened, bedazzled bee, was undamaged by the small impact of the smudge. The driver, wearing a three day old beard, and tattooed fingers wrapped around the steering wheel: LOVE on the fingers of his right hand and HATE on the other finger of his right one. By the time the trucker reached his truck stop, three hours after the pancake death of our beloved bumble bee, he limped into the diner and order a cheeseburger, an extra large Coke, consumed it all in minutes before he entered the Mens Room -- remaining inside for nearly forty minutes. The old fellow adjusted his pants up as walked out the exit doors, pushing his belt over his gelatinous balloon gut.
The trucker had an awkward walk too, as if he were bow legged when actually he wasn't.
(While helping his sister move furniture and boxes of clothes and kitchen utensils, he tripped and fell a few steps down hurting his left ankle enough to be rushed to the hospital. During his medical care, his doctors couldn't align the broken ankle bone. So truck man had no option but to jerk his left leg across the pavement while slightly dragging the the right one behind it)
After reaching his cab, he took a rag and cleaned off most of the splattered bugs. Our dead bee was now as thin as a dollar bill. After wiping clean the front hood and fender, he jumped back into the cab, placed the dirty rag under his seat; then turned the ignition key. Time waits for no bug, be it bee or not.
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