You don’t seem to get the whole concept of yielding, or even slowing down at a blind corner to see if one should yield. You make me want to stand behind the waterfall from Mary Oliver’s “The Poet with His Face in His Hands” (deep in the April 4 New Yorker.) Next to the weeping poet there, I have less tearful and more annoyed things to say to you. If the poet is bothered — and having in his place before, I suspect he may be — I can wait until he is done. Your honk and hand-wave are enough to hold me in this mood a bit, and your bumper karma may do the job anyway.