when the road insists you slow down you can’t help but think of loss. have the dues been paid yet or is it still gonna cost. cygnets circle each other, babies big as ducks. an eagle in the rearview and you wonder about luck. spend two days in a hammock reading your new favorite book. this wasn’t how we planned it, it isn’t how it looks. the river turned to marsh, broadened by the flood. his words came out harsh but that’s not who he was. yellow headed, red winged blackbirds sing the same song. maybe you didn’t understand, maybe you heard wrong. white pelicans lazily floating five way up above. i don’t know if i need that thing they’re calling love. keep your paddles in the water. let the wind blow your hair. if you wait they will come. find your way they’ll be there.

if one mood might be blamed on a coworker’s backhand, the next could easily be the fault of ducklings. each a handful only of dandelion-colored puff streaked in shades of fading brown, all of it sticking out in all directions to catch in the sunlight, so many miniature mad scientists milling about a pristine surface, all reaching for snacks mouth-first. the grown female leading this parade of purity squawks consistently, not constantly. she even takes the time to dip, ploop, head down tail up, white rump exposed to the whole neighborhood, to grab her own vittles from the well of manna on which her charges float. for each call she makes, a few coke spoon-sized bills open in response, sending forth weirdly deep, yet peeps, of pubescent change. one minute meanderer, brave or unknowing, strays a little further, chasing bugs across the silken prairie of pond beyond the dozen feet of radius around their leader to which the other buoyant fuzzballs seem to adhere. the abiding calm of the surface on which these fowls float is only mildly and infrequently disturbed by the propellers of a duckling’s full speed, usually when it finds itself further from its family than expected. this invariably provokes a couple siblings to rev up as well, for maybe no cause but fun, their tiny webbed orange paddles sprinting along the surface, fluffing up the water around them and leaving wakes only a mouse might ride. steadily around the glaze too are fish jumping toward flying treats just at the upper plane of their existence, rippling not quite close enough to collide with any of the duckling’s disturbances, all soft across the grey green reflections of mountain. swooping swinging dropping bow and arrow silhouettes of swallows toward the buzzing bug feast they share with the fish, the line neither species can breach favored by the suicidal spirit of insects. around the pond, up the mountains, for miles all that’s visible widely are shades of aspen and evergreen and stone. several and uncountable stands of pale, narrow trunks, their heights a yellow-green you thought only crayons could be, narrow leaves a cloud of color from this distance, the way you imagine Holi. a nearby stand of evergreen that must be absolutely enormous, their branches so easily visible, taller than the aspen with broad, red-caramel stalks supporting layers of thick, horizontal limbs covered in blankets of deep, rich emerald. royalty. between these two arboreal marvels, dark rock crumbles in all shapes, piecemeal stumbling at invisible speeds, dawdling precariously, the demand of gravity nearly ineffectual. the pattern unfathomable. all of this under a broad, blue sky complemented by only the most casual of passing clouds. ultimately, gratefully: this scene is a whole mood.

Each state has its own way of saying a thing. Colorado says “Open Range” where Idaho tells a driver “Watch For Stock” and Wyoming, to my great amusement, “Loose Stock”. Oregon has a sign that just says “Slides” which sounds fun, while elsewhere there’s simply a drawing to precisely differentiate what kind of slide. “Watch for Falling Rocks” is a real one. I’ve got a “Watch For Rocks” in my neighborhood—somehow less intimidating. Yesterday I passed a sign with a similar warning in Idaho. I don’t remember it precisely and I’m sorry about that because it was a worthy sign to heed. On a four lane mountain road with a speed limit of 65, I had to make a counter-intuitive decision in order to avoid the rockslide that had tumbled and strewn all the way across the road. Miraculously there was no oncoming traffic. The broad scattering was mostly of hindrances just smaller than soccer balls, and terrifying angular. As I neared the chunks of stone with my low-clearance front wheel drive, I realized my safe passage would be further across. Ultimately I drove diagonally over three lanes, all the way to the pebbles I could confidently cover. Once past the stones, I immediately hit the gas and scooted with haste back to my side of the mountain road.

Many miles later I was still in still in Idaho, along a not-dissimilar two-lane, 65MPH road. With the Salmon River on my right I spied another obstacle big enough to harm my car, way up ahead in my lane. It moved and I, still driving toward it, more cautiously now, assumed it bent to nibble carrion. There were two… oh! Not vultures with food, but geese! With goslings! Dead ahead. I braked hard, honking at the birds. The already uneasy group scattered confusedly, some into the opposite lane. I was stopped now on the river side and from the other direction came three trucks, the first and last of which were semis. These, I knew, could cause so much more damage in stopping for birds than if they didn’t, and I knew my standstill would cause some indecision. I was luckily alone in my lane, hazard lights on, hoping the birds would see safety to the river on my side. Somehow the first truck driver managed to slow and swerve just enough as it approached the feathered disarray, taking advantage of what shoulder was available. I watched as, from just beside that giant vehicle, all the little yellow babies went tumbling in its wake. They bounced and rolled back into my lane, where with my foot still on the brake I watched, enthralled by the chaos of fluffy goslings scattering across the pavement before me like a bag of new stuffed toys just shaken empty. Suddenly the goose parents sprang out of panic and into action, landing behind their babies to usher them. Wings wide, these two brave parents hastened their befuddled, but seemingly unharmed, brood. The last semi picked up speed as it straightened itself from where it had preemptively swerved, probably cursing the birds. In seconds, the whole fowl family was safely on the bank of the Salmon River. Wishing them well, I drove on. I don’t know any variations on, “Watch For Wildlife”, but I don’t mind making way for goslings.