Their flattened, dried out bodies, small bundles along the roads. Or the bumpier, more moist, fresher crop. They’re always there. I swerve around them, breaking. Who’d want turkey, deer, racoon, opossum, fox, squirrel, coyote or skunk ground up in their tires..?
You wonder if it happened fast. If they felt it coming.
Dark morning commute. Blackish winter morning. Another Jack Rabbit hit. This one probably the biggest one I’ve ever seen. The bright highlights of the car in front light up the scene. Only differently this time.
Coming to a full stop, I watch the driver ahead of me, his car now pulled over next to the fake-fancy golf course, its water fountain spraying day and night. Fountains and spot lights promise instant sophistication, never mind the rest.
The man walks across the dark road, lit water droplets glittering behind, to help take responsibility for his roadkill.
A sad heap almost in the middle of the road, the rabbit, still conscious, breathing, heaving. My front lights shine at the two of them, a white half-circle in the dark blue, as he removes his shirt, wrapping its body into it, lifting it off the stage.
I thank him silently as he carries it off. That’s all it takes. Such a small act.
Pick up your rabbits.
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