Bird Strike

Late one night I was driving down a North Carolina back road in my pickup listening to public radio. 

The program was a rebroadcast of one of my favorite shows, Fresh Air. Terry Gross was asking Neil Young something about his and Steven Stills’ differences with creative input in Buffalo Springfield, when suddenly it seemed that the entire windshield of my truck was filled with wings. The shock of the sight and an immediate loud thump caused my adrenal glands to react like a water balloon hitting a sidewalk. Every muscle in my body sprang to attention. My immediate reaction was to slam on the breaks. Not always the best idea in my old Toyota four-wheel drive with its tall tires and on a road that was not in the best shape surfacewise. I somehow overcame the instinct and down shifted and let off the accelerator. White knuckled, I glanced in the rearview and just made out a large object falling past the rising full moon and landing in the ditch.

Breaking to a stop on the rocky shoulder, I shut off the engine and grabbed the only first aid equipment I could think of, a half full water bottle. I somehow thought to engage my emergency flashers and jerked open the door. The next thing I knew I was looking up at my boots as the water bottle rolled under the truck. I had forgotten to release my seat belt and was hanging half in and half out of the vehicle.

I managed to unfasten the restraint and rolled out onto the pavement. I scooched up under the rocker panel and felt around under the truck, finally managing to locate the container. I grabbed it and sprang to my feet.

I sprinted down the road searching the ditch in the moonlight as I ran, the pulsing red glow of my emergency flashers growing paler on the blacktop as I got farther from the truck. After what seemed a quarter mile, I slowed to a trot, partially to scan for my victim more carefully and partially because between my adrenalin rush fading and my sad physical shape I was heaving like a spent racehorse.

I drifted to a stop and looked back to where my vehicle sat way up the road. Surely I hadn’t missed seeing such a large object as what I had seen through my windshield. And I was sure I had seen it land in the ditch. But, surely it hadn’t been this far back. Maybe I had been traveling faster than I had thought. I decided I would check another hundred yards or so farther down.

Just as I turned to continue my search, a cloud passed over the moon and the scene went dark. Suddenly there was a sound like throwing a bucket of tennis balls onto a bass drum! My arms flew to cover my face and I staggered backward and fell into the opposite ditch. 

There was a loud splash and my mouth filled with the very unpleasant taste of stagnant ditch water. I clambered up the bank and onto my knees in the rocks there by the road just in time to see a huge silhouette cross the once again visible moon. I staggered to my feet in amazement as the moonlight shone on a snow-white head and tail as the night flyer disappeared into the tree line.

I spit gritty water onto the asphalt and walked slowly back to my truck in a daze, dripping smelly water. I climbed aboard, cranked her up and pulled her down in gear. As I drove down the road in silence, deep in reverie, I noticed something fluttering from the passenger side wiper blade. It was a huge brown feather with a white tip. In that same instant, it was carried away into the night by the wind. This time, I didn’t override my instincts and immediately slammed on breaks. Luckily I maintained control of the old bucket and once again stopped on the graveled shoulder.

I searched for that feather until the full moon set and the morning sun rose over the cornfields. It’s still out there somewhere, like its owner.