Roadkill

Fifty-five miles per hour down a two-lane rural road.
I caught it in my peripheral vision—right shoulder—front paws stretched, hind legs exploding across the asphalt.

I glanced at the rear-view mirror; another vehicle trailed close behind. Stopping wasn’t an option.
An oncoming car approached from ahead—swerving wasn’t an option either.

Maybe it will stop.
Maybe it will make it across.

I held my line.
It ran.

I felt no thud, heard nothing. For a moment, I assumed it had made it.

Then, in the driver-side mirror, I saw a tight curl of fur lying in the opposite lane. It hadn’t made it.
It must have collided with the oncoming vehicle’s tire.

Still, I felt no sadness. No pain.

And suddenly I was twelve again—my mom driving me to a cross-country meet in the dark hours before dawn, heading toward the mountain to catch the district bus to Deming, New Mexico. A rabbit darted out. There was no time to brake, no room to swerve. The heavy thud echoed through the car.

I cried the rest of the way. My first encounter with roadkill—so sudden, so brutal.

But now—just another drive.
I felt nothing.

Life.
Death.

One minute, a squirrel sprinting across the road; the next, stillness.
Its body will feed scavengers—crows, maybe others.

The cycle continues.