From Alpine, the brief stretch to Marfa, and
onto forlorn Van Horn: more dead mammals
than should exist, just bits of animals,
of blood and fur, smearing the road. The land
looks barren, yet it yields this horde of lives,
as evidenced by deaths so numerous.
The only living things as I haul ass
at seventy: well-fed vultures. I swerve—
a quail, two chicks—between my tires, I pray.
The rear-view mirror shows a moving wing,
I think, no sign of chicks. Oh hope, that thing
with feathers! Have I joined the butchery?
Is this the way a President feels when
he sends the young to gut-red wars again?
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