Hopefully not the kind of bird Mark hit.

The other day, I accidentally crushed a bird with my car. I was driving off exit 116 heading towards Michigan when I noticed the little bastard pecking at something shiny lying in the middle of my lane; it might have been broken glass. The road was busy and traffic moving quickly, so suddenly slamming the brakes or swerving was out of the question as it would harm me and I'm far more important than a tiny, gray bird since I can talk. Besides, I figured if he's eating something in the middle of the road, he probably knows how to avoid cars.

I got closer, he didn't move. I got real close, he sort of looked up. I passed over him. My heart skipped a beat and my eyes jumped to the rearview to see if I'd managed to pass the body of the car over him instead of a wheel. But, moments later, my fear was realized in the form of a single, twitching wing thrust skyward: I had killed a bird.

My initial fear was that the guy behind me was frowning with disapproval of my careless and anti-environmental act, but I managed to pass it publicly by pretending I didn't see him. That was plausible, since some people manage to not see deer or other cars and promptly run into them. Surely a tiny, gray bird was hard to spot.

But, I was unable to convince myself that I hadn't seen the bird. Nor was I able to believe that perhaps he had survived and I saw his inquisitive little head twitch with wonder at the odd event which had just driven over him, instead of a broken and useless wing. Slowly, I began to feel bad. To make matters worse, ZZ Top's "I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide" came on the radio literally moments after the deed was realized. Well, I was moving down the road in my V-8 Ford / … Nobody gave me trouble cause they know I got it made / I'm bad, I'm nationwide / Girl, I'm bad bad bad bad bad (I have the misfortunate of driving a Ford with a big engine). I'd never had the fortune to have the radio pop a song that's fitting or ironic before; usually I just get stuff like "Indestructible" after noticing a Burger King.

I sort of gaped while ZZ Top's anthem to the low rider ethos rubbed salt into my emotional wounds when I realized that I really didn't feel all that guilty. I consider myself something of an amateur ornithologist, birds are important to me — at least, more important than snakes or insects. And this particular bird was one threatened by the encroaching European Starling, so I valued it even higher. Why then wasn't I shedding tears or even felt my tear ducts stimulated?

My only solace is the idea that my emotional turmoil comes in a different form, one where I notice the irony of music and the ecological niche left void by my foul deed, as opposed to feeling sad or the need to lash myself in compensation. I did pick up a bird feeder in the hopes seeing a tiny, gray bird.

Mark Johnson is an unprofessional writer who drinks too much and smokes too little. Witty, unconventional, cavalier, badass: all terms rarely used by others to describe him. His hobbies include loitering publicly, exchanging high fives, and embellishing himself. He tries to be cynical, but a pesky and staggeringly persistent optimism just keeps getting in the way. Mark takes nothing half as serious as perhaps it should be taken; to date, this has not gotten him physically harmed, but he worries.