Bitter Lake National Wildlife Refuge
Each day a progression. The first of three began with a cat. It’s coloring white with some spots of grayish black and maybe a touch of orange, but it was hard to tell because I did not stop driving.
Each day a progression. The first of three began with a cat. It’s coloring white with some spots of grayish black and maybe a touch of orange, but it was hard to tell because I did not stop driving. In fact, I’ve never stopped driving to inspect roadkill. Instead I flash into a state of compartmentalizing, stashing the scene in a mental room full of animals I pretend are still alive. A Noah’s Ark in my brain, mostly stashed with kitties and deer.
This cat, maybe a barn cat blended with a family cat, traversing the rural roadways of Roswell, New Mexico, was clearly dead. I drove on. It climbed a cat tower in my mind.
The following day, while I was traveling along the same route as the day before, the dead cat had attracted an inquisitive onlooker. The valiant looking Northern Harrier hopped in the middle of the road, eyeing the trampled cat, alert. As I approached, driving slow as I’m prone to do as I age, I crawled to a stop as the scene unfolded some 50ft in front of me. In a blink the hawk launched straight up like a space shuttle, swooped off the road, and kept watch from the grass. I drove on, glancing in my sideview mirror, but the bird never moved.
On the third morning, my final morning taking this back road to write in the Bitter Lake National Wildlife Refuge, the scene had only shifted slightly. Here I found the Northern Harrier atop the deceased feline. Whatever ceremony needed to take place, had taken place. It was as if the bird of prey had kept vigil for a day, praying whatever prayers a Harrier might pray, giving thanks in whatever way a Harrier might give thanks, and the deal was sealed. A mile from the wildlife refuge it was obvious, a meal need not go to waste. And on the third day the reciprocity of the natural world made something of a human caused death, redeeming our paved road punishment with a holy vision of what it takes to survive.
I have not yet driven back the way I came. I do not know what’s left of the cat. But I know the Northern Harrier is filled, fed, and lives to fly another day.
