beneath the Eastern Phoebe. It hums alongside the Hermit Thrush 
and Indigo Bunting. It is almost like a river but it is not a river.
It is not out-runnable. There are moments when the Marsh Wrens die
down, and the highway fills them like the blood in your ears. 
There are no real lulls. You could call the highway a zipper
because of the way it buzzes above the Ruby-crowned Kinglet 
and the Willow Flycatcher. You could call it a drone or a moan. 
I have never heard a Vesper Sparrow or a Dark-eyed Junco. 
A chickadee is hatching crisply from its egg, a Gray Catbird is ripping
a millipede from the meadow, but how would you know. 
The highway’s sound is like a strong wind, or like a heavy curtain
being dragged along the ground. It is louder than the alarm call
of any bird, louder than the noise a Barn Swallow makes when it is
being eaten. I may never hear a Brown Thrasher, a Pine Warbler, 
a Rose-breasted Grosbeak, a Common Yellowthroat. 
There are 160,955 miles of highway in America.

Claire Wahmanholm