The season of scattered fur
Oct. 22nd, 2007 08:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morleyroarlyIt is the season of death, the season of scattered shards of bone and clumps of hide.
It is roadkill season.
I find roadkill season strangely compelling. There is a visceral, jarring intensity to the overwhelming quantity of dead carcasses strewn across the highway.
The most common are deer. I nearly killed one this morning, at dawn, driving south to Waynesburg. She stood quiet and still about five feet from the pavement as I hurtled past at 75 mph. As with any deer at dawn she was no doubt ready to jump into traffic at any moment.
The second most common are groundhogs, slow and ponderous as they amble out into the sea of crushing wheels. I ran over a groundhog on the parkway about six months ago, and the moment still stays lodged in my brain - the way he cut a straight line from south to north, the way he walked with purpose, nose down, towards the sheer wall of the median. He was crossing on an overpass, and I have no idea how he got there. He looked so convinced of his immortality, so unconcerned with the gigantic metal creatures bearing down on his small round body. The sickening thump is the worst part - a complex organism, an animal with soft fur and sharp teeth and parents and offspring, reduced to a loud popping thump.
The third most common are racoons. As you drive past them on the side of the road, they look mischievous even in death.
And then there are the mystery animals, spread across several lanes of traffic in various states of dismemberment, unrecognizable. Brown fur - a fox? A dog? Too large to be a groundhog, too round and long-haired to be a deer. They all leave the same dark maroon blood stains on the highway concrete.
The official deer hunting season won't begin for another month, but the killing fields are already well underway. As winter arrives and migrations begin, the death toll will only rise.
On particularly long drives to job sites, I count the carcasses. One day last winter I counted over two dozen deer over 25 miles. Another mile, another case of rigor mortis, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, eyes staring glossy into nothingness.
With every newly spotted victim, I somehow feel more alive. It is a guilty, loving, base and complicated feeling.
It is roadkill season.
I find roadkill season strangely compelling. There is a visceral, jarring intensity to the overwhelming quantity of dead carcasses strewn across the highway.
The most common are deer. I nearly killed one this morning, at dawn, driving south to Waynesburg. She stood quiet and still about five feet from the pavement as I hurtled past at 75 mph. As with any deer at dawn she was no doubt ready to jump into traffic at any moment.
The second most common are groundhogs, slow and ponderous as they amble out into the sea of crushing wheels. I ran over a groundhog on the parkway about six months ago, and the moment still stays lodged in my brain - the way he cut a straight line from south to north, the way he walked with purpose, nose down, towards the sheer wall of the median. He was crossing on an overpass, and I have no idea how he got there. He looked so convinced of his immortality, so unconcerned with the gigantic metal creatures bearing down on his small round body. The sickening thump is the worst part - a complex organism, an animal with soft fur and sharp teeth and parents and offspring, reduced to a loud popping thump.
The third most common are racoons. As you drive past them on the side of the road, they look mischievous even in death.
And then there are the mystery animals, spread across several lanes of traffic in various states of dismemberment, unrecognizable. Brown fur - a fox? A dog? Too large to be a groundhog, too round and long-haired to be a deer. They all leave the same dark maroon blood stains on the highway concrete.
The official deer hunting season won't begin for another month, but the killing fields are already well underway. As winter arrives and migrations begin, the death toll will only rise.
On particularly long drives to job sites, I count the carcasses. One day last winter I counted over two dozen deer over 25 miles. Another mile, another case of rigor mortis, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, eyes staring glossy into nothingness.
With every newly spotted victim, I somehow feel more alive. It is a guilty, loving, base and complicated feeling.
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Date: 2007-10-23 03:02 am (UTC)