Fifteen years ago we crossed the Pass coming home in the dark in an ice storm. We followed semis so we’d know where the road was and still tried to stay away from them as they staggered across the lanes in the winds. Something landed in front of the truck and we struck it. It took D. a hundred yards or more to bring us to a safe halt. He trudged out and disappeared into the swirling snow. What he brought back to lay on the opened tailgate was a great owl, still grasping in death the tiny owl it had intended to land on the road to eat. And for a bit we were grasped, too, held together there in an infinity of swirling flakes, regret and awe.
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