When I see a bug crawl across
my peripheral, I take a small piece of
paper, and I softly push its legs under.
What feels like miles to the
bug, I soar paper toward an exit, the nearest
window or door, and
I put the bug down and
watch it crawl.
I imagine the 70s, when road trips' tallied by dots of
dead bugs on the windshield was as common as
Amazon packages on front porches. Now, dead bugs
are a rarity as cross-country pelts are made of dirt and
Guns, the true Americana experience of the 21st century.
Before I let the bug go, I take a digital photo on
my cell phone, a document of the species,
my tourist attraction.