Collateral Damage
The headlights throw two beams through the fog from a long way
off as the car winds toward us. The rise and fall of the lights has
become our signal to dash into the road, grabbing up one soft black
body in each hand. The beams appear and disappear in the dips
and curves as we shuttle back and forth with flashlight beams
speckling the pavement. When we hear the engine we know there
is only time for one last run before the car crests the hill and bears
down upon us.
Standing on the shoulder, I can see faces as the car draws near,
greenish in the dashboard lights, looking right at us as the spray
from the tires flies up. Our eyes meet and the brake lights flash red
for just a heartbeat, lit up like momentary synapses in the driver’s
brain. The light telegraphs a hint of thought for fellow humans in the
rain on the side of a lonely country road. I’m waiting for them to roll
down a window and ask if we need help, but they don’t stop. The
driver looks back over his shoulder, brake lights dimming as he
speeds away. If cars scarcely brake for Homo sapiens, what hope
can we hold for Ambystoma maculata, our other neighbors who