Taryn Ziegler
It was an owl that I
drove past, creeping along
my single lane, glued
to cement and stone alone
in a vehicle swept by
a current of traffic, curling
and unfurling along the countryside
in its insidious patterns
Cutting swathes of human
flatness like scars into the
back of a terrible, wild
beast the trees line the
streets but stand at a distance,
watching
fearfully
It was an owl that lay splattered
by some hapless hunk of metal and
plastic, coughing deep coughs of exhaust
Every day I drive this tar scar holding to my lane, cranking the music, restraining myself from going completely insane under cloudy skies pregnant with rain hurtling forward like some sort of godforsaken train
Usually
It’s a racoon disemboweled, a possum
disavowed, a pigeon split down the
middle and, with its own innards,
festooned
But today it
was an owl
and,
shaken from my
human stupor, I
felt my eyes
prick with tears
and my heart seized
with the tree’s
fear
Then the person in front
of me rolled forward and
I, too,
carried on
leaving behind the owl as unremarkable
carrion
Clamor 