The armadillos that litter the highway
after the last frost has exhausted itself,
crepe myrtles in town all garish with the blush of bloom.
So many armored bodies, I begin to wonder
if people have been gunning for them.
This is Alabama, after all, where some folks
make a game of hitting turtles on lonely country roads,
and camouflaged boys shoot at crows for no reason
other than backwoods boredom: an easy way
to pass the time until the intended target shows up.
In our suburban neighborhood pond,
ducklings have hatched, all darling flipper
and downy back. They keep a steadfast distance,
refuse to approach the shore, despite the stale crusts
of bread my daughter tosses to the shallows.
The ducks will not be bribed, hosting
some innate distrust, an inborn grasp
of the easy cruelty that we, all of us, are capable of.
Poets will tell you that they glisten—the armadillos.
And maybe they do. Maybe like headlights, they shine
so bright that they can’t make out the danger
as it barrels down the highway. Not gonna brake
for an animal. Not gonna brake for anything.
