Cycling through

We killed a bird on the drive from Clayton, NM to Santa Fe. It was the quietest death. 

I’ve only known the loud, gory, deer-smashing-into-the-side-of-you-car, blood-all-over-your windshield endings. I wrote so frequently over the last few years of these cliffs. These endings that felt like I was hurling myself off into the abyss with a loud and violent death below. Always coming back with no remembrance of what I was before. But this little bird reminded me that they are not all like that.

It was silent, quick and we almost would have missed the whole thing if our eyes weren’t open. It fluttered and flew quietly in front of the car. We were cruising at 80mph.

It hit, instant death, rolling over the top with the faintest thud behind us.

It all happened so fast I didn’t even know for sure what I was supposed to know. If I hadn’t looked back, I could have easily convinced myself it was still alive.

Here we are, days later, and I can’t stop thinking about the dead bird. A thousand quiet deaths. Coming back. Cycling through.

And for the first time - on some level - I understand the books and the marriages and the possibilities of a forever. I understand how the world is able to do that. To create something like that - a deep connection, a lasting - and I think maybe somewhere I could believe in that.