How angels leave Dubuque

I am driving toward daylight, down that long grade to the Mississippi. There is a flicker in the sand shadows at the base of the limestone bluffs. From earth, out of open stone, a dark object grows, whitens. Running across corn stubble, dead hay, in hard sun it catches fire, becomes brilliant, a deep-bellied pheasant. He lifts, flaps once, again, and crests the grasses. He is skimming east. The curve tightens. I am now heading north. He’s beautiful and he’s rising. I figure the point above the road where he will cross. I push down on the accelerator, moving eighty-five, six miles an hour. I will pass first, he will sail over and spread like a fine saint. The thrust of his neck draws him up. I push down. He holds for less than a beat, then pumps forward to meet me. I slide under him. I think, he’s feathertipped it. I think, I am blessed. Even as he rises he hits. I see him, breast torn, thrown in an arc into the east field. I spin, correct, pull onto the shoulder. Through the open window I hear his wings beating dust.