Anticipation

The date’s been starred on my calendar for many months: Tuesday, October 18^th. Perhaps the most anticipated and most anxiety-producing date on any of my calendars thus far (except perhaps for my wedding day). No, it is not the due date of a human baby, but the date that my literary baby—my first book, Cerulean Blues: A Personal Search for a Vanishing Songbird—enters the world.

I’m nervous. Anxious. What if the title is misspelled? What if there’s a strange mix up with the printer, or the distributor, or the book stores? What if I’ve forgotten to thank someone? And of course the biggest worry: what if no one likes it? What if no one reads it? What if some parts are too sad, too research-heavy, inappropriately funny, or naïve?

I assume that these kinds of fears (and others too ridiculous to admit on a blog) are normal before a book comes out. Right?

If you choose to read my book (and I hope you do, all fears aside), here’s a short preview of what’s in store for you: You will learn a lot about the tiny cerulean warbler, the fastest-declining migratory songbird in North America. You will read about its habits, its habitats, its nests, its migration patterns, its breeding behavior, and more. You will also hear quite a bit about two of the primary reasons for the cerulean’s declining population numbers: mountaintop removal coal mining in Central Appalachia, and deforestation due to full-sun coffee plantations in the Northern Andes of South America.

Juan Valdez and me at the Federacion Nacional de Cafeteros de Colombia headquarters in Bogota -- yep, he's in the book, too.

The book visits several Appalachian locales—Cooper’s Rock State Forest, the Lewis Wetzel Wildlife Management Area, and the Kanawha State Forest in West Virginia, and the Royal Blue Wildlife Management Area in Campbell County, Tennessee. The last several chapters take place in and around San Vicente de Chucurí in northeastern Colombia, and in nearby La Reserva Natural de las Aves Reinita Cielo Azul (the Cerulean Wabler Bird Reserve).

You will also read some personal stuff: Jesse and Katie camping, hiking with our dog, searching for visible mountaintop removal mines. I have at least two panic attacks in the book. (Warning: chapter two is sad.) Also, you will read about rattlesnakes, beer, the Colombian military, ATVs, a parade, and much more. You’ll meet some charismatic biologists and cerulean researchers. And there’s a poem in the beginning, written by one of these wonderful biologists.

So: I hope you order the book, and I hope you like it. In the meantime, I will be pacing and biting my nails, waiting for Cerulean Blues to be born.

Orca Bait and Farmers’ Market Envy

We were lured by the odds: 75% of kayak tours in the Smallpox Bay area of San Juan Island see Puget Sound’s local orcas. Of course, our tour ended up to be part of the 25% that didn’t. But other than the no-show orcas, our 6-hour kayak adventure did not disappoint.

Jesse samples the kelp

After a quick safety lesson on the rocky beach, our small group (three tandem kayaks plus our guide) paddled along the steep, craggy shoreline. We passed silently through beds of kelp, beneath trophy homes owned by the likes of Pepsi Co.’s CEO. Our guide pointed out the house where Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman honeymooned. A small flock of Pigeon Guillemots, bobbing like black rubber duckies on the gentle waves around our kayaks, seemed unimpressed. Bald Eagles – both white-headed adults and mottled, awkward juveniles – roosted in the pines high above us. Several times, without warning, a harbor seal would pop up next to us then disappear, only to reappear (whack-a-mole style) fifty feet away. Harbor porpoises arced between the distant boats. But no orcas. Our guide had heard that they were elsewhere in the Sound, chasing migrating salmon. Good for them.

When I told my mother that we’d be kayaking with wild orcas, she’d been dismayed. “Won’t you be scared?” she asked. “What if they eat you?” Despite the fact that few (if any?) people had ever been killed by wild orcas, it didn’t seem like such a bad way to go. Someone would have a great story to tell. (Not me, of course, since I’d be all Jonah-like in the orca’s belly. Though Jonah did get out of that situation, didn’t he?)

Anyway, the orcas stayed away. Jesse and I kayaked, we drank local beer, we hopped on the ferry back to the mainland at sunset, which was, of course, beautiful. We headed back to Seattle, the location of this year’s Association of Avian Veterinarians conference; we took our trip to the San Juan Islands during the one day that Jesse didn’t have meetings, lectures, or labs.

On the other days, I mostly wandered around Seattle by myself (except for one lovely afternoon with the famous Matt Haas!). After many hours spent at Pike Place, I developed a serious case of farmers’ market envy. Sure, the market at Pike Place has been around for more than 100 years. And, yes, the population of Seattle is a bit larger than the population of Cheat Lake. Ruby & Ketchy’s Restaurant might not be the original Starbuck’s, but it’s not without charm, either. Pike Place inspired me to think about ways to improve our tiny Cheat Lake Farmers’ Market. I envision a dock next to our market location near the lake, where local men in pontoons and bass boats unload their fresh fish onto waiting mounds of ice. While we may not have salmon, crabs, or halibut, Cheat Lake can supply us with ample stocks of catfish, sunfish, and largemouth bass. Not the same, I know. Oh well.

Did we see any birds on our short trip to Seattle? Why yes, we did, but only a few. The list follows, in no particular order:

Bald Eagle

Pigeon Guillemot

Great Blue Heron

Belted Kingfisher

Glaucous-winged Gull

Caspian Tern

Mallard

Red-breasted Nuthatch

Northern Flicker (red-shafted variety)

American Goldfinch

American Crow

Black-capped Chickadee

American Robin

Bewick’s Wren

Spotted Towhee

Song Sparrow

Fox Sparrow

White-crowned Sparrow

Barn Swallow

Cedar Waxwing

Wilson’s Warbler (LIFE BIRD for me)

Anna’s Hummingbird

Forty-eight Hours in Florida: Pelican Blood, Mosquitoes, and a Life Bird

When you’re distracted—say, standing amid ten or fifteen slightly suspicious pelicans—that’s when the mosquitoes attack. On our recent trip to Sarasota, Florida, I acquired no fewer than 70 mosquito bites on my legs. It looks like I’m suffering from a pox virus. But the horribly itchiness is a small price to pay for the experience I had at the Save Our Seabirds rehabilitation center and bird sanctuary.

The purpose of the trip was for Jesse to take blood samples from the captive, permanently injured Brown Pelicans who live at SOS. This has something to do with Jesse’s PhD research; I can’t say anything more about his research because of strict confidentiality agreements, but I can say that I got to “help” collect the blood samples. (Well, in truth, the professional, talented SOS staff did most of the helping, while I took pictures, handed Jesse blood tubes, and recorded identification data about the birds.)

Brown Pelicans are fascinating creatures. I learned that they don’t actually breathe through their nostrils; they breathe through their mouths. They have holes that appear to be nostrils, but pelicans use these holes to excrete the salt that they ingest when they catch fish. I got to run my finger along the edge of a pelican’s bill, and I was surprised at the roughness; apparently, pelicans can bite and scrape you with this rough edge. I also touched the pelican’s pouch, which was amazingly soft.

While all of this pelican fondling was going on, the mosquitoes were having a great time gorging themselves on blood from my legs. I knew it was happening, but the pelicans demanded all of my attention. Which is how it should be.

Another highlight of the short trip was a visit to Lido Beach at sunset. Back in March of 2000 Jesse asked me to marry him on Lido at sunset; revisiting the site was emotional (in a good way). We had our tenth wedding anniversary a few weeks ago, and it was fun to remember that night; Jesse was only 21 at the time and I, 23. I had finished college the year before, but Jesse was on Spring Break from his senior year. We were visiting my friend Jessica Noon, who was a student at nearby New College. Seems like a long time ago, now; Jesse had no veterinary ambitions, and I hadn’t yet written a word of literary nonfiction. A lot has happened in ten years…

And now for the life bird! In between making blood smears, messing with the centrifuge, and mumbling to his microscope, Jesse found time to go birding with me at Myakka River State Park, about 15 miles inland from Sarasota. Late July is definitely the wrong time to go birding in Florida—breeding season has passed, migration hasn’t started yet, and the birds are no longer singing—but we did see some nice birds. I got a life bird—a Swallow-tailed Kite. I thought it was an Osprey at first because it was circling above the lake, but then I found the bird in my binoculars and noticed its unmistakable swallowtail. (Our complete bird list from the trip is below.)

Are the steaks ready yet?

So, if you’re ever in the Sarasota vicinity, I highly recommend that you visit Save Our Seabirds (it’s open to the public), and that you support their work with a donation. They treat about 1,000 injured birds a year—not just seabirds, but raptors and songbirds, too—in addition to the permanently injured birds who reside in their sanctuary. (You can also “like” SOS on Facebook.) You shouldn’t miss Myakka River State Park, either—in addition to hiking and bird watching, you can rent bicycles, canoes, or take a fan boat ride. There’s a concession stand that sells beer, and the gift shop sells bait, bug spray (vital!), and alligator-themed clothing, mugs, shot glasses, etc.  And the park seems to be home to a colony of curious black vultures (see the pic above!); I imagine that park officials may occasionally grow tired of the vultures’ antics, but I loved watching them check out the grills in the picnic area.

Without further ado, the bird list…

Myakka River State Park:

Double-crested Cormorant
Anhinga
Great Blue Heron
Great Egret
Snowy Egret
Little Blue Heron
Tricolored Heron
Cattle Egret
Black-crowned Night Heron
White Ibis
Black-bellied Whistling Duck

Black Vulture
Turkey Vulture
Osprey
Swallow-tailed Kite
Red-shouldered Hawk
Mourning Dove
Eurasian Collared-Dove
Ruby-throated Hummingbird
Red-bellied Woodpecker
Downy Woodpecker

American Crow
Fish Crow
Tufted Titmouse
Carolina Wren
Blue-gray Gnatcatcher
Northern Mockingbird
Northern Parula
Black-and-white Warbler
Northern Cardinal
Common Grackle
Boat-tailed Grackle

On Lido Beach:

Black Skimmer
Brown Pelican
Willet
Laughing Gull
Rock Pigeon
Quaker Parrot

Two State Parks to Visit This Summer: Cathedral and Blackwater Falls

Last Friday we loaded the dogs into our Pod (aka our Toyota Yaris hatchback) and followed the Cheat River—we drove east and south, the river flowed north and west. In just over an hour we arrived in the small town of Aurora, West Virginia, and the day’s first destination: Cathedral State Park.

Cathedral State Park (so named, I assume, because its ancient virgin hemlocks create the feeling of being inside a church with soaring ceilings) was almost deserted when we pulled into the parking lot.  The only other visitor was an elderly man sitting on a bench near the lot, reading a newspaper. Cathedral is a small park—only 133 acres with 6 miles of trails—but its virgin hemlock groves are legendary. A sign in the parking lot claimed that the average age of the park’s hemlocks is 325 years.

Jesse, Mr. Bones, Liza Jane, and I happily tromped into the forest (two of us wagging our tails, two of us smiling) and were immediately swallowed by the cool, ferny, mossy-ness of the place. The trails, which were wide, flat, and easy, wound between enormous trees (not just hemlocks, but others as well) and followed gentle Rhine Creek. Many old hemlocks were perfect for hugging; when else will you get the chance to throw your arms around a living thing that’s 300 years old?

Cathedral has no campground, no cabins, and no gift shop, which may explain why it was so empty—but I’m not complaining! The park does have bathrooms and two nice picnic shelters, neither of which were in use. We heard many birds: Broad-winged Hawk, Black-throated Blue Warbler, Parula, Pine Warbler, and more, although I admit that we weren’t really keeping track. I imagine it’s a good birding spot in the spring. We also saw a flying squirrel that appeared to be injured, but we couldn’t get him; he shimmied awkwardly up a tree trunk and disappeared. We wondered if he could have been an endangered West Virginia Northern Flying Squirrel…poor little guy.

I’m going to take this opportunity to plug a new book, Among the Ancients, by author Joan Maloof. This book explores old-growth forests in the eastern United States, including Cathedral State Park’s forest. Among the Ancients is published by Ruka Press, the same folks who are publishing my book this fall.

After exploring most (well, probably all) of Cathedral State Park, we headed twenty miles south to one of West Virginia’s most popular state parks, Blackwater Falls.

Blackwater Falls State Park, in Davis, West Virgina, is quite a bit different from Cathedral. For starters, Blackwater Falls was crowded; we saw license plates from PA, VA, OH, and MD. Of course, it’s great that people want to explore nature, and it’s encouraging to see so many folks striding along the (gulp) paved trail and wooden stairs…but I think I prefer the quite coolness of Cathedral.

Blackwater has everything the vacationer could ask for: a 54-room air-conditioned lodge, 26 cabins (3 which are pet-friendly), and a 65-unit campground. The lodge has a restaurant that serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The park has two gift shops, filled with everything from maps and tee shirts to shot glasses and ashtrays, all emblazoned with images of the park’s iconic waterfall. Oh yeah, and the park has an indoor pool, too, with a fitness center. Motor-coach tours are available, as well.

All of this annoys my inner Edward Abbey. I suppose that if it takes an indoor pool to get people to visit a state park, then go ahead and build an indoor pool. But really—an indoor pool?? It seems to me that the Blackwater River is right there; can’t we just swim in the river instead? True, we may lose one or two folks over the falls…and, sure, there’s probably some acid mine drainage in the river water…but still. An indoor pool? Grr.

I digress. My purpose here is not to criticize, but to say that in spite of all the “improvements,” the rush of the water over Blackwater Falls is a sight to behold. And the water really is black (well, more accurately a tannish-brown color, but “Tannish-Brown Falls” sounds unpleasant). The water gets its color from the acid in fallen hemlock and spruce needles. I encourage you all to suffer the stairs and pavement and vending machines and go see Blackwater Falls—you won’t be disappointed. And on the way home you can stop and get ice cream at the Purple Fiddle in Thomas—always necessary after an afternoon spent hiking in the July heat.

If you live near Morgantown (or even if you don’t), Cathedral State Park and Blackwater Falls State Park are closer than you think—within a two-hour drive of Morgantown. Take a trip! You won’t be disappointed.

Six Reasons to Keep Your Cat Indoors

Last week Jesse performed a two-hour orthopedic surgery on a grey kitty with four white paws. He repaired the cat’s right femur and left tibia, both of which had been shattered by shotgun pellets; the nine-pound cat had a total of four pellets throughout his body. Jesse placed four pins and five wires into the broken bones.

Sorry to write another depressing blog (the next one will be funny, I promise!) but I feel compelled to share some of my thoughts on cats—in particular, cats who live some or all of their lives outdoors. First, let me say that I love cats. Some of my best friends have been cats. I spent many purr-filled hours with my first cat, Sassy, and one of her kittens, Fancy. I also fondly remember Bandit, Buddy, Junior, Black Jack, Jinx, Snoopy, Sherlock, Watson, Frisky, Socks, and Sneakers.

All of these cats from my childhood have one thing in common: they lived short, violent lives. And they all lived outdoors, unless you count the barn as “indoors,” which I do not.

Jinx lived the longest, though her ears and face were scarred from frequent fights and frostbite. Sassy probably made it the next longest – maybe six years – before she got stepped on and crushed by one of our horses. Watson made it a year or two. The rest died or disappeared before their first birthdays. When I was in fifth or sixth grade I watched Fancy, my talkative, outgoing, gray tabby with white stripes and a tan face, get hit by a car and killed on the road in front of my parents’ house. My dad didn’t want me to see, so he scraped her off the pavement with a shovel and tossed her in the weeds on the other side. (Yes, I am still traumatized by this. Hi Dad!)

So, here are a few reasons to consider keeping your kitteh indoors—or taking her outdoors only when you can supervise:

1. Mean People

People can be very mean to cats. I live with a veterinarian, and I frequently see or hear about sad cat cases.

In addition to the gun-shot kitty mentioned above, I remember the day someone brought in a tiny, stray orange kitten; her back legs were paralyzed, the result of being shot near her spine. Surgery wasn’t an option. A kind older couple adopted her despite her handicap, and “June Bug” still lives with them today.

I have also heard people telling stories about personally shooting feral cats—or cats who “seemed” feral. A close relative of mine reportedly used to put unwanted kittens into sacks, tie the sacks closed, and then toss them into the Susquehanna River. This image haunts me.

2. Cars

I probably see at least one dead cat on the road everyday. In addition to poor Fancy, I’m sure that several other of my childhood cats were killed on the road, or were hit and limped to a ditch to suffer before eventually dying.

Some of my friends will remember Simon, the fat black cat that had been cared for by Cheat Lake Animal Hospital’s “SOL” fund. Simon was a stray who had been hit by a car. His picture was posted in the hospital and elsewhere, but no owner ever claimed him. The cat was in rough shape; Jesse had to amputate one mangled hind leg and do surgery on the other. Simon also suffered severe “road rash” on his back, and his fur in that region grew in white. After several months of recovery, Simon found a permanent, indoor home with an elderly woman, and now he’s spoiled and happy. But how many Simons are out there who never make it to a veterinarian?

3. Diseases

Cats get some pretty nasty infectious diseases, many of which are fatal and easily transmittable. Feline leukemia (FeLV), of course, and rabies, which can be passed to humans. (Read about a recent rabid cat in Morgantown: http://www.wvgazette.com/News/201106230502.)

Other common cat diseases include feline panleukopenia, feline chlamydophila, feline calcivirus, feline infectious peritonitis (FIP), and feline immunodeficiency virus (FIV).

4. Other Critters

Curiosity is not the only thing that will kill a cat. Outdoor cats are at risk of being attacked, killed, and potentially eaten by dogs, coyotes, and raccoons.

5. Your Neighbors

Your free-roaming outdoor cat annoys your neighbors. Your neighbors probably haven’t said anything to you because they a.) are too polite; b.) don’t want to start trouble; c.) don’t want to be accused of hating cats; or d.) don’t want to be blamed for your cat’s disappearance.

Off the top of my head, I can think of several outdoor cats in several different neighborhoods that have bothered me. First was an orange kitty whose house was across the street from the one we rented in Blacksburg. This orange kitty would come into my yard (over my chain-link fence) and stalk birds at my feeders. Sadly, this cat was hit by a car and killed on the road in front of my house.

Murphy, another fat orange cat, used to spray pee all over the vegetable plants on my back porch. It was like a game to him. He would hide from me, and then when I’d go inside, he’d spring out from under a bush, spray his gross man-cat pee on my tomato plants, and then sprint to the safety of his porch next door. At night Murphy would have sex (or something) under our bedroom window. Mr. Bones was always on his chain or a leash when he was outside in our yard; why didn’t the same rules apply to Murphy?

I think the neighbors who lived next to our Harding Road house were cat hoarders. Or at least they fed a lot of stray cats. A variety of kitties, in all shapes and sizes, would hang around my yard and porch. They would hop over my garden fence and bury their poop among my pepper plants and basil. Getting a handful of moist cat poop while pulling up weeds is disgusting.

Oh, and I almost forgot (haha):

6. Birds and Native Wildlife

Others have said it before, so I will refer you to two links.

This is an excellent resource with LOTS of information, from The Wildlife Society:

http://joomla.wildlife.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=845&Itemid=183

Another great resource. This one is from The American Bird Conservancy:

http://www.abcbirds.org/abcprograms/policy/cats/index.html

Thanks for indulging me on this topic. I know a lot of you have outdoor cats; I, too, at one time had outdoor cats—a lot of them!—but if my husband ever lets us have a pet cat (hint, hint, Jesse), the cat will be an inside-only cat, for all the reasons listed here. Even if you don’t care about your neighbors or birds, consider the safety of your cat. Poor Fancy…

A Birthday Tribute to Mr. William Bones, My Best Friend

In the summer of 2000, someone left a box of Beagle-mix puppies (along with their mother) next to a dumpster behind a strip mall in Fairmont, West Virginia; thankfully, they ended up at the nearby Marion County Humane Society instead of the landfill. One of these pups—the one with the white tip on his tail—cowered in the back of his cage and yipped at Jesse and me. We took him home. Jesse wanted to name him Hooper (after the guy from JAWS) and I wanted to name him Roscoe, but we finally settled on Mr. Billy Bones, in honor of the boozing pirate from TREASURE ISLAND. (Pirate Billy Bones is the one who gets drunk and sings Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!)

Eleven years later, Mr. Bones is still going strong. His muzzle is grey and his mouth smells terrible, but he has many moments of exuberant puppy behavior—he streaks up and down the hallway, he takes the stuffing out of toys, and he beats up his little sister Liza Jane. He digs holes in the yard and barks at the UPS man.

And he loves me. He loves, he loves, he loves. I’ve never known any creature, human or non-human, who loves as much as Mr. Bones. He gives gentle little kisses, he sighs longingly, he puts his silken ears back and gazes into my eyes. We spoon. We snuggle. We nap on the couch and we share popcorn (or pupcorn, as it’s known in our house). I don’t feel worthy of so much unconditional love.

We never thought Mr. Bones would make it this long. He developed epilepsy when he was two years old, and for the last three or four years he’s had to take medication twice a day to control his seizures. As a pup, Mr. Bones had parvovirus, a highly contagious intestinal disease that kills puppies. But he survived.

A story worth sharing: if we hadn’t adopted Mr. Bones, and if he hadn’t contracted parvo, Jesse probably wouldn’t be a veterinarian today. In the summer of 2000, Jesse was working at a local furniture store, being paid $30 a day (cash, under the table) to deliver couches, televisions, and refrigerators around Morgantown. While I was quite enamored with Jesse’s biceps and abs during his furniture-moving days, it was a dangerous job, and if he’d been hurt hauling a television up a flight of stairs, his boss could claim he’d never met him, since no record of Jesse’s employment existed.

Enter Mr. Bones. We noticed our new puppy was very sick a few days after bringing him home from the shelter. He had bloody diarrhea and threw up every time he ate. Of course, this worsened on a Sunday, the only day pets EVER get sick, and the only day most veterinary clinics are closed. We called our regular vet, but no one answered. We called the next place listed in the phonebook, Cheat Lake Animal Hospital. The new owner, the fabulous Jean Meade, who was planning to reopen the clinic under her ownership the next day, answered the phone. She told us to bring Bones in right away.

After a week in the hospital, Mr. Bones made a full recovery. Jean knew we were poor, so she cut us some breaks with the bill. Jesse was very appreciative, so he began volunteering two days a week at the animal hospital. Soon, he decided he’d like to become a veterinarian. He quit his job moving furniture and took a staff position at WVU’s library book depository. Then he began taking credits towards a Masters degree. Fast-forward a few years, and Jesse enrolled at Virginia Tech’s veterinary school. He graduated in 2008 and was named his class’s Outstanding Senior. He also won several other awards; he might be embarrassed if I list them all, so I will refrain from bragging. And now Jesse is back at Cheat Lake Animal Hospital, working as a veterinarian instead of a volunteer.

Without Mr. Bones, I don’t think any of the above would have happened. Without Mr. Bones, our lives would have been very different.

Some more about Old Man Bones…

Likes:

Long walks in the woods
Wading in lakes
Pupcorn
Snuggling
Chasing rabbits
Chasing cats
Chasing squirrels
Sleeping
Eating deer poop
Rolling in deer poop
Barking
Aggressive face petting
Humping lady dogs
Women who speak to him in “the puppy voice”

Dislikes:

Thunderstorms
Gunshots
Fireworks
Smoke alarms
Answering machines
Slippery floors
Baths
UPS
USPS
Fed-Ex

 

 

Best Dog Friends:
Liza Jane Fallon (little sister)
Cairo Reilly Mengert (little brother, RIP)
Roxanne Fallon (RIP)
Belle Sallitt

Delia Simon (first girlfriend)
Karma Leslie
Sunny Fallon
Meg Sallitt
Shiloh Dobson
Clover Nicewonger
Spencer Hamming (RIP)

Proudest Moment:

Comforting grieving students at Virginia Tech after the shooting in April of 2007. (Read my essay about this, “An Ear to Stroke,” published in the April/May 2011 issue of The Bark.)

So, happy birthday to Mr. Bones, my best friend. What did I do to deserve such a creature? A beautiful soul full of generous love. Not a dog—an angel in a dog suit.

Blackbird

I hit and killed a bird while driving on route 220 near Bedford, Pennsylvania, last Friday.

I think it was a Red-winged Blackbird, although it could have been a Grackle or even a Starling. I saw a brief whirring of black wings out of the corner of my eye, and then I felt the sickening impact on my car’s grill. In my side-view mirror I caught a glimpse of a clump of feathers churning chaotically, then coming to rest near the double yellow line. I choked on my breath.

The road curved and crested a hill, and I pulled into the parking lot of a small church, where I paused for a moment: maybe the bird wasn’t dead. Maybe I could still rescue him, maybe Jesse could fix him. What about the bird’s babies? What about his mate? I pulled out of the parking lot, slinging gravel and spinning my tires. I crested the hill again and saw all that remained of the poor blackbird: a few feathers and a spot of red like a flattened strawberry. Someone else must have run him over, too. I pulled to the side of the road and wept—ugly weeping, the kind of nose-running, gurgling, mouth-twisting sobbing that comes after something irreversible has happened, and you are to blame.

I called Jesse. After sputtering about what had happened, Jesse did his best to make me feel better: “Blackbirds are jerks,” he said. “So are grackles. And if it was a starling, you did the world a favor.” But what about his babies? I whined. “Blackbirds are polygamous. He doesn’t care about his babies.”

After regaining my composure, I pulled back onto 220. The Beatles’ “Blackbird” is on my iPod, and I listened to it over and over and over for the next half hour or so. And I began to pay attention to the roadkill.

Two-lane 220 winds through farm fields and cow pastures, between houses, barns, and small churches; the number of dead animals on the side of the road was astounding. Deer, of course, swollen in the June heat, legs cracked at odd angles, eyes open and staring. Bloated groundhogs on their sides, short legs sticking out stiffly from their thick brown bodies. Raccoons unrecognizable except for their ringed tails. Rabbits. Squirrels. More small birds. A wild turkey. Fawn. Red fox. A few weeks ago, driving through the Navajo Reservation on the Utah / Arizona border, we passed a dead, road-killed horse, sprawled on her side. She could have been sleeping. But the ravens holding court on her flanks told a different story.

Road-killed animals always remind me of Barry Lopez’s essay “Apologia.” I haven’t read it for years, and I can’t seem to find it anywhere on my bookshelves, but as I remember the essay, Lopez hits something (was it a bird, too?), stops, and buries it. And then he stops and buries all the dead animals that he passes. I used to assign this essay to my freshman comp students; the consensus among them was that it’s weird and morbid to play with roadkill. Perhaps they’re right. But animal-death on a road is so undignified—a vulgar end to a free and wild life.

What can I do? I can stay home, I guess, and get rid of my car. But, instead, I will hold that bird’s spirit in my heart. I will conjure a blackbird heaven and imagine him there—fields of swaying hay, many mates tucked in hidden nests, fat slow insects, a landscape free of asphalt, concrete, and exhaust. Sorry is not enough. A thousand apologies, Blackbird. Fly.