By Dana Levin
The crowd quickens by the side of the desert highway, awaiting the procession. A square-jawed hero type, escorted by a group of men, walks by us with ceremony, in a shoulder harness designed to unfurl enormous, feathered wings.
The procession stops. Just in front of us, along the side of the road, the escorts fan out into lines on either side of the man, looking up and down the highway. When there’s a long enough pause in traffic, they turn to face him—this is his signal to walk out onto the road and lay himself down.
He adjusts his body so the yellow center line aligns with his spine; he unfurls his long feathers completely across both sides of the road. He must lie there calm and steady, as the rite demands, while cars from opposite directions run over his outspread wings.
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