Even going 80 I recognized she was

grabbing all the eye-catching (white orchids?) swirling tire-level high
before they were shredded by the passing traffic’s wake. Her arm-neck-
head-hands snatching (onion skin cups?) like emus with a flaxen rind
and poor co-ordination but the (spiderwebby mouthwash lids?)
blurpled through her mitts like mercury (Herculese). The surrounding
highway, unfettered by car parts and skid marks, showned she hadn’t
slown down and jumped out when she saw the tiny (paper pill cups?)
twisting. So she must’ve scrambled up the fill slope fill slope fill slope…
Woof! In what shoes? Those puffy soled ones? Naw. Barefoot? Give
that kid an (ankle monitor) for Surprisingly Useless Athleticism,
which must make me the soon-to-be Old Woman Pulled Over
with a Popped Trunk Filling with (thumb skirts?).
Hazards tocking like a heart.