The Hawk

I killed a hawk yesterday, and I scraped its remains from the front grill of my car. I was driving to work, going sixty-five on the highway, and toward my right, I saw the bird soar from up high to down low. I didn’t really notice it until I heard the big thump once I hit it. I felt horrible during the drive to work. So much, in fact, that I couldn’t even walk up and see my front grill until after work. I wish I hadn’t. I imagined a big splatter of blood, maybe a few guts. It was worse: its corpse was stuck between the bars of my front grill, its head poking out, a look of shock on its face.¹ I felt disgusted. I drove home, in broad daylight, knowing I had this fucking hawk splayed out on the front of my car for the whole world to see. Once I drove home, I took out my ice scraper, wrapped a rag around it, and started poking the hawk off my car. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do. The worst part was when its body was stuck, its head bent all the way back toward its tail, and all the poking couldn’t set it free. I had to go on the other side of the bar where it was stuck behind and try to scrape it free. Its body flopped to the floor like a rag doll. I left it there and threw my rag away. There’s still a few hawk feathers stuck on the blood on my front bumper.

If I slowed down for just one second, that hawk would’ve flown past my car and it’ll still be alive right now. But I didn’t register its low flight was in direct opposition to my car. My mind was rocking out to some Hives blaring on my speakers. It was cold, I was annoyed, and all I wanted to do was rock out. My mind wasn’t focused on the damn road. I feel bad, if you can’t tell. It was just a bird, and I do understand that, but I’m no hunter. I don’t like killing things if I don’t have to. I like hawks. Hell, I had to look up hawks on Google Images to double check that it was a hawk I hit. Once I saw the pictures, though, my heart sank. That’s exactly what I hit and scraped off my car. It was flying south. This hawk was cold and just wanted to go somewhere warmer. I ended it, though.

For retribution, the universe broke my $300 Bose headphones. I was listening to a podcast while I washed the dishes tonight, and I bent down to pick something off the floor, and I somehow pulled on the cord or something because the left ear went quiet. All I could hear was the right ear, and I looked at the cord and saw that the end of the cord where it meets the headphone jack was frayed. I tried to mash the copper wires together and then tape it up, but I couldn’t. These headphones are done for. Part of me feels like I deserve this. Like it’s some cruel joke from the universe, and I have to atone for my sins. All because I killed a fucking hawk.

Or it could just mean that I’m not focusing on the world in front of me, and that I need to be more mindful of it.