The futile beauty of flightless birds

It fell from the sky like a shooting star, out in the desert west of town. Had it not fallen then, in that hour before dawn, I’d never have seen it. I normally wouldn’t even have been awake then, but Marcy had quit mid-shift, leaving no one else to sell Marlboros and tar-black coffee and diesel fuel and burritos to all the all-night truckers along this lonely stretch of highway. Had it not fallen so close to the ranch, I’d never have been able to retrieve it. …