13 Benson Bridge
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I don’t know why we stared at that dead pterodactyl chick so long—there wasn’t anything particularly striking or even gross about it; there were no flies, for example, no maggots—just a couple of butterflies, one white and the other burnt orange, which matched the fading sunlight.
Maybe it was our nonstop ride all the way from Biggs Junction near the Washington border to Multnomah Falls, which was closer to Portland (I mean, it’s a lot of work, peddling a BMX bicycle some 70-plus miles, even across level terrain). Or maybe it was how paper-thin the creature’s exsanguinous, oyster-white skin was, how almost translucent, or the way its little talons weren’t really talons at all but little hands, like a baby’s hands. All I remember for certain is how contemplative
