I was raised to respect nature. “Never snuff your cigarette out on an eagle,” my father preached. “Always address trees as ‘Mister’ or ‘Missus’ and not by their first names,” my mother added.

My city-bred parents, although not particularly knowledgeable about woodlands creatures, did instill a certain amount of wonder for each individual species. I learned that every bug, bird and most neighbors were able to survive on this blue sphere by developing powers and traits unique to their environments.

Since moving to the country a few years ago, I’ve spent countless hours studying the dozens of flying, crawling, slithering, howling and stinky animals that share our space. Most, I’ve deduced, are bright enough to hang on to life. Through wile, cunning and haphazard discovery of our vegetable gardens, species survive and thrive.

I continue to respect nature (Good morning, Mrs. Pine!), but have begun to doubt my parents’ assumption that each creature is intelligent and adaptable, able to procreate and populate in the utmost of negative conditions. It’s mostly because of the actions of a small bird called a killdeer.

Somehow abundant in Pennsylvania, killdeer are brown, gull-winged birds with black-and-white rings around their necks. It isn’t appearance that separates them from the hundreds of other flying objects, but their complete and utter lack of brains.

Killdeer, you see, build nests and lay eggs in the middle of the road.

We have several gravel roads that intersect our farm, and for the first few years I’d notice the noisy birds flying alongside those paths as I drove a truck or tractor to a barn or pasture. On more than one occasion, a killdeer I’d pass would look as though it had a broken wing.

I promise, Dad. It wasn’t because I ground a Marlboro out on the poor thing.

The killdeer fake an injury on purpose. The idea (so bird people say) is to draw any possible predators away from the nest.

Killdeers can act.

Some might say that’s a sign of intelligence, but I would argue that assessment with two simple words — Paris Hilton. The false wing break is a commendable trait until you realize why the bird has to resort to such an act.

It lays its eggs in the middle of the road.

There are thousands of safer places to raise a family: in a meadow, under the porch, in Mr. Maple Tree or a nice, soft hayloft.

Instead, this doltish beaked flier chooses to lay three or four large spotted gray eggs in a crater among the large spotted gray gravel, where the large rusty truck will eventually crush whatever chance the bird has of avoiding the fate of the dodo, no matter the killdeer’s acting ability.

There will be no offspring to will a best-actress Oscar, because you laid your eggs in the middle of the road.

Again.

Sorry, Mom and Dad.

I can’t find the respect for this one.

Copyright ©2026— Trib Total Media, LLC (TribLIVE.com)