Ever since I read that
flying insects have decreased by sixty percent
I roll down the window
and corral them out
Catch shrew sized moths
that crackle against my palms
not to crumble their dusty wings
not one less, a hopeless balancing
On a bend, a crow
squat to the ground
waiting to be hit by another car
who was not me, but was one of us
It rests in a cardboard box
when I return two hours later
flies leave it embarrassed
to have started on a premature corpse
Flat on its back
it remembers and stares
at you, as part of your species
until its white third eyelid closes
The rest, I try to black out
no longer sure it was a kindness