southeast of Livermore
tarantulas were on the move.
Hundreds, thousands
going somewhere
only known to them.
We drove slowly, the radio
softly playing corridos and
Conjunto Norteño songs,
trying not to squish
the armies of spiders.
We were looking for snakes.
Just to see them, mostly;
move them off the road.
Didn’t find any that night,
but we did see a San Joaquin kit fox.
A dead one, in the road. It was still
warm and had no visible injuries.
My friend wanted to take it. What?
She said, For my collection.
It would make a beautiful mount.
We moved it off the road
instead, so it could feed
vultures, beetles, and rats.
Sad that this graceful being
the size of a small cat,
tried to cross a back road
too close to a rowdy cowboy saloon
deep in the dark heat of the Diablo Range,
fifty miles from any town.
One of my very oldest friends has long gathered road kid for a meal. Even ate a skunk once. also years ago, out by Gabbs NV, stopping for a drink only to find I'd missed the tarantula races and, being so excited, vowed to return next July 4th, which I did only to find they'd forsaken the arachnids, for they're out in the 100's scuttling through the sage and looking for a mate. So I settled for the championship cow pie tossing contest.
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