I saw it, yelled, and honked, but the junco wouldn’t leave the middle of that snowy road. My single lane was barely cleared. Even though I wanted to swerve, it was that little idiot or me. Maybe it was injured? I attempted to go over it—not run it over—but predictably this small birdbrain roused at the last second, only to be met directly by the car grill. I heard it. All at 70MPH. And it wasn’t the first thing I’d contributed to the death of that day.

I continued on, praying then, and more often after that.

A few days later I was walking around my car when I saw the junco’s little body tucked in not quite horrifically; at least it had died immediately. I yelled again then, the other death too still fresh. Grief rose out of my gut into frustrated, helpless sounds. There was nothing to do but apologize as I gently released the bird from its prolonged state of sudden end, feeling the tiny bones immediately lose all tension in my hands. So soft, so fragile; the junco collapsed into me like I could care for it. I felt the depth of my incompetence at caring for all things weaker.

Gently, thoughtfully, and in a plastic bag, I brought the feathered, bloody corpse with me to bury in my friend’s back yard. I whispered to it as if a sleeping baby, “Little bird, I’m sorry” among other things. At my friend’s house in a snowy canyon holding my small spade, I wondered if the dirt was frozen. Could I appreciate further penance? I turned toward the trees. The ground under the pines opened easily in dark intimacy, layers upon layers of soft loam inviting. Death is everywhere beneath the topsoil, the branches above me seemed to say, waving in the winter wind, Welcome. Still whispering to my victim, I allowed myself to envision the bird resting in peace. Lying there in its final place, my junco let me grieve.