Bird Woman Bird After my mother’s death, I follow the paths of migratory birds on a road trip from the Rio Grande to the Ohio River in search of solitude and meaning.
Excerpt from first chapter here:
Abruptly and without warning Palo Duro Canyon, twenty miles south of Amarillo, slices the relentless horizontality of the Texas Panhandle. One minute I’m driving along the straight and narrow, where rectangular parcels of ranchland open on either side of the highway like pages of a flattened bible, and the next minute, the land falls away, and I slide past massive blocks of sandstone. Asphalt crumbles into base-course. I am 57 years-old and acutely aware that I have never actually changed a tire. The temperature indicator in the Toyota Highlander reads 102 degrees. Heat waves off the stone give substance to the air, as though I can float upon it. In a kind of Thelma and Louise moment, I want to soar like a raven straight off the cliff face. More than that: I want to be Raven.