For every dead armadillo
we see between here and
New Orleans there are two,
maybe three, standing
behind the chain fence.
They stare, claws hooked
in the links, at their
brothers and sisters who
have been crushed by the
radials of the interstate.
Their bicameral brains
understand some armadillos
die so others may live.
The survivors cogitate
their own existence when
they see their kin smashed.
They stare through the
early morning fog with
topaz eyes. The images
they see stay within their
now wise minds. They pass
on the DON’T GET RUN OVER
ON INTERSTATE 59 gene to
their baby armadillos.
The armadillos that get
run over don’t pass on
anything but a death smell.
Those that watch the splats
in the pea soup pass on
something worthwhile to
their offspring — the
PEARL RIVER SURVIVAL gene
and that’s what it’s all
about. The same goes for
cats, dogs, and raccoons.
I’m not sure about possums
and squirrels. Even stupid
fish getting ripped into
the air leave behind some
bright school mates and
memories.

Here’s Lake Pontchartrain.