Cookies help us run our site more efficiently.

By clicking “Accept”, you agree to the storing of cookies on your device to enhance site navigation, analyze site usage, and assist in our marketing efforts. View our Privacy Policy for more information or to customize your cookie preferences.

Bird Strike

News Feed
Tuesday, February 25, 2025

The woman and her sister had been out jogging by the river when they saw the bird fall from the sky. At first, they mistook it for a falling leaf, but the angle and speed of descent suggested a weightier object. They squatted down like children to inspect the body. A pale-green bird with a cream-colored breast, too delicate for a city bird. They saw nothing above them. No trees or obstructions, just a red fog of diffuse and muddled light.Poor bird. Why would a bird fall out of the sky like that? It was small enough to have balanced on a single blade of straw. They knew almost nothing about the daily lives of birds, save the pigeons who scampered about, pecking at urban detritus. During mating season, the males chased the females up and down the sidewalks, hopping on, hopping off.If they had seen the dead bird in a state of decay, they would have simply sidestepped it. But because they’d witnessed the moment it struck the ground, they felt somehow responsible, as though it were a piece of trash that had blown out of their hands.Shouldn’t we at least put it off to the side, the woman wondered aloud.Don’t do it, her sister warned. You don’t know what it has.They left the body, casting a few backward glances. The brief stop made it more difficult to continue running, so they walked for a stretch. The path along the Hudson River was almost empty at that hour. A flock of seagulls bobbed on the water, penned in by a rhomboid of lamplight. A crow perched mutely on a wire.Before the interruption, she had been telling her sister about the artist. You know, the artist. I profiled him in the magazine several years ago, she reminded her sister, when he was working on the windmill installation? Remember, I shadowed him for a week, and then we took that trip to Montauk? Now he’s back in town to install a new show in Chelsea. Some kind of sculpture—a machine.The woman’s sister was staring at her phone. She frowned at the lit screen, typing rapidly. What is it? the woman asked, waiting. The concentration on her sister’s face made her wonder if everything was all right. What happened? Her sister finally looked up.Oh, we ordered a mattress online and now it’s arrived.The screech of wet bicycle brakes. Water slapping against rock. Her sister was saying, Honestly, it took us forever to decide. Weighing the environmental impact of a new foam mattress versus a used one, cost versus expediency and guilt.A plane roared overhead, lower than normal, heading to LaGuardia, perhaps. The sky was so woolly, she imagined the runway materializing at the last minute, filling up the entire windshield. A plunge of faith before the tires hit tarmac. The pilot must have a way of knowing where the ground is, she thought. Or the plane’s apparatus must know.What were you saying just now? her sister asked. Oh, yeah, the artist. The artist who’s coming to town. What about him? I can’t believe you’re still talking to that creep.In a rare confluence of irregular schedules, the woman and her husband were having dinner together at home, discussing the details of his upcoming birthday party. It was an unremarkable middle-age birthday, and he didn’t want to make a fuss. A small gathering at the German beer hall, he finally decided, and friends could drop in as they wished.So, I’ll tell everyone Wednesday, he said, because Thursday I have class and Friday I’ll be gone.What’s on Friday? The woman looked up.I already told you. I’m going to Connecticut with Miriam.The woman’s phone buzzed on the table. Her sister: I Googled the dead bird.But I can’t Wednesday, the woman said. I told that artist I’d see his installation.Apparently migratory birds get confused by high-rises that emanate light. The storm exacerbated things.Her husband, scraping off the dishes: Come when you’re finished, then. Can’t take that long to—A muffled notification pinged on his phone, and he reflexively put a wet hand to his back pocket.The one we saw could’ve been some kind of warbler. Or vireo?Okay, don’t steal my idea, but listen to this, he said, picking up the spatula again. Office hours, but for dating.Birds navigate by feeling the pull of the Earth’s magnetic field.Why keep up this fake pretense that each date is somehow brand-new, virginal? Line them up. Drop-in model. Thank you, next. He was gesticulating wildly for effect.Are you experiencing such a volume of matches on your app that you’re wishing for a more expedient model of vetting and exploiting people?The 9/11 memorial endangers thousands of birds every year.Very funny.What’s the arrangement you have with Miriam now, after your little incident? I’m not judging; I’m just curious if she requires you to get tested regularly.The birds fly around the light, unable to extricate themselves.We said we wouldn’t talk about details.They waste precious energy and can die of exhaustion.And I wonder how you’ll explain to everyone why you’re spending your birthday weekend with her, not with me.I’ll tell them my wife is very principled; she doesn’t believe in the birthday industrial complex. She believes only in radical transparency, and in emotional blackmail when it suits her.Put homing pigeons in a dark cage, take them out to sea, and spin them around and around until they’re sick. They’ll still find their way home.Why do you insist on going through with this?You were the one who wanted this, not me.I guess if you want something badly enough, you generally find a way. Throat gonorrhea be damned.Her husband threw the dish towel on the counter and went into the other room. The woman watched him leave, and wondered whether memory had once served as a kind of homing mechanism. Pillars of light. Remembering how things used to be.Her mother had told her, over and over, Don’t look at your phone in a dark room. It’s terrible for your eyes. If you have to read, turn on the lights. She looked over now at her husband’s sleeping form, his back turned against her. She dimmed the phone’s brightness to the lowest possible setting. She swiped through various screens but could not retain much of what she saw. Tropical storm, six-foot surge, 150 awaiting rescue. Friend struggling into skinny leather pants in a dressing room. Death toll rising. Waterlogged areas. Urgent closing date upcoming. Dear members of the media—please find attacked the early-preview invitation and other press materials. She stared at the typo. Attacked. She chuckled audibly and took a screenshot. This confrontational language slipped out of people unexpectedly, breaching the surface for oxygen. The other day, a friend wrote to say that she would defiantly be at the café—The restaurant fan on the roof of their building revved to life. The walls shuddered; a coin on their nightstand began vibrating at an irritating frequency.Are you kidding me? her husband said, smothering his own head with a pillow. At this fucking hour.So he hadn’t been asleep.I’m going to throw myself out the window. I swear to fucking God.Ass me! they typed on accident, and the occasional Go tit! never got old. Sometimes, meaning to type Done! with her hands in the wrong home position, she typed Die! instead. She eagerly opened the email with the press materials, but before it could fully load, she suddenly remembered what she had wanted to read.Birds and the Urban Environment: Did you know that the Miracle on the Hudson accident, in which Captain Sully had to perform an emergency landing in the Hudson River, was caused by a bird strike? A bird strike happens when one or many birds collide with a plane. Sometimes birds will be ingested into the jet engine and cause catastrophic engine failure.Another common problem for birds is called fatal light attraction. You might not know this, but the majority of migrating birds travel at night and utilize the moon and stars for navigation. However, these days, migrating at night has become deadly. Light pollution from urban centers can work alongside fog and storms to disorient birds. Imagine being distracted while you’re trying to complete a marathon or an Ironman event! Even worse, birds often crash into reflective windows, perceiving them as a continuation of the sky. This is one reason it will sometimes “rain birds” after a storm.Help us! Have you seen these birds?She’d opened up another article, which mentioned the case of a strange tropical bird, with a flat, “lizard shaped” head, that could not leave Times Square. It was most likely an escaped species from a collector’s menagerie. Otherwise it had blown in from somewhere. Tourists pointed and gawked as it slammed helplessly into glass doors and flapped against the panels of glowing screens.Still up?Hey! Here finally?I’m really looking forward to seeing you.As though on cue, a pink aura—a kind of sparkling rainbow mash—appeared on the borders of her vision. She clicked her screen closed.You don’t find instant connections easily, an elderly man on the bus had once told her, unsolicited.Five or six times in a lifetime, that’s all.The phone glowed again.Will I see you at the gallery tomorrow?Yes, of course.Then nothing. Perhaps he was going through customs, or the reception was weak. She stared at the window expectantly. When the text came through, it was a picture of him with an inflatable travel pillow around his neck.Was a selfie always an invitation for another selfie? Impossible in the dark, here, in bed. She could send a joke in response. Or the screenshot of the gallery’s typo. She opened her sister’s chat window to work out the text draft there, so he wouldn’t see her typing.Who are you talking to? Please. I’m begging you. I have to get to campus early, her husband said.My sister. I’m almost done.We forgot to do the laundry. Tomorrow, okay?She sent her screenshot, clicked off the phone, and shoved it under her pillow. She imagined vibrations against her ear but forced herself not to look.This is a momentary infatuation and it will dissipate soon, she thought. I have nothing to confess.Sweetie, you’re obsessed with being good, her friend had said once, to tease her. Secret feelings aren’t the same as actions.In her daily life, nothing that was felt could be acted upon; what could be acted upon followed routines of inertia or necessity. To be an adult was to feel a thing and walk away from it. To feel anxiety and know its baselessness, to feel jealousy and chalk it up to insecurity. To feel the need to run out of the train, screaming, yet remain completely still, unruffled.Her husband began snoring.She closed her eyes and put her hand into her underwear.Before she fell asleep, she thought about the Mandarin duck that had appeared one day in a pond in Central Park. The duck was dazzling, with high-contrast plumage reminiscent of a Peking-opera mask. Its arrival had felt like a very special occasion, like a visit from a prime minister. Now, according to the articles, the duck paddled around with the common mallards, circling idly for crumbs of bread. Visitors flocked to take its photo. Beautiful things want to be replicated, so philosophers say. Was this visitation beautiful? The unfathomable longing of this wayward bird that wakes one day in a man-made pond, alone among strangers.The woman spent most of the next morning in bed. In the middle of the night, the artist had sent an audio file—no subject, no body, just a recording of himself playing scales on the guitar. Higher, faster, changing keys, breaking off into riffs and climaxes. The file had gone on for 10 minutes. She hadn’t understood his intention, but her gut had kicked so violently that she’d had to take several shits.After she’d listened to the file, she’d dug around online for his past interviews, trying to summon his actual voice. She’d found a short documentary on public television, but the green of his shirt had put her off. Next, she’d scrolled through Google Image search, looking for new pictures, then the tagged photos on his social-media profile, and had found one of him looking at the camera with a dreamy, postcoital expression. She had masturbated to this and now she was late, speed-walking to the gallery.She was sweaty in the unseasonable humidity, and her hair was wilting. She could feel the sting of salt in the fresh wound in the corner of her mouth. Getting ready, she’d picked at a patch of dead skin until it bled.Miriam just picked up the cake! Can’t wait to see you all!She approached the gallery and saw a block of text pasted on the white wall at the entrance. Underneath was his name in big black lettering.APORIA PETER FANG-CAPRAInside, workers on ladders with buckets of black paint were brushing an enormous contraption of pneumatic valves and tubes and elbows. She saw him up there, craning his neck and pointing a finger along a ribbed piece that linked to a mechanical lung. The artist looked the way she’d remembered … perhaps more diminutive.Her voice was lost in the din. Hey, do you guys need some help?He climbed down from the ladder.Look who’s here, at the very end of the day.She stiffened in his embrace.I thought you would show up earlier. Come. We tried to save some of the work so you could see.Gripping her forearm, he led her underneath some scaffolding, and they stood before a maze of freshly oiled pieces, on a blue tarp, that had yet to be lifted into the sculpture. He gestured toward a metal chamber. An organ? The apparatus seemed to follow the logic of utility, but if one looked closely, the structure had no observable function. Where things ended or began was impossible to say. Head, tail, mouth, or anus. She took out her phone to take photos.We’re here by the bathrooms. Got two tables. Taking all bier and wurst orders!By the way, I’m sorry about that file I sent, he said. Please don’t listen to it. I play scales when I’m nervous, and it helps calm me down.Too late. I listened to the whole thing on repeat when I went for a run this morning.I’m so embarrassed.You’re really good at the guitar.Abruptly, he grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.Don’t turn now. My gallerist is walking rapidly toward us with a very determined expression. Pretend we’re invisible. Oh God, she’s looking for me. She’s quite mad. I’ll have to be right back.She watched as he danced off to intercept a tall, finely dressed woman. They retreated into a back office and closed the door behind them.The woman looked again at her phone.dang you dense girl homeboy turning up the charm so you’ll write a good review that simple heard a thing or two about him be careful kk loveAlone, the woman tried to look preoccupied and circled the machine, as though studying its craftmanship. She had long reached the end of her observations. She took out her phone again, scrolled through her email, and opened up the press materials.“Is my death possible?” asks Jacques Derrida in Aporias. How can one experience that which is impossible to experience? In this new sculptural work, Fang-Capra asks whether the future itself is aporetic, a pipe dream or a mirage. Materials of modernity comprise this convoluted structure; discourses of biopolitical and emotional disaster are limned by discarded pipes and sheet metal. What would a machine of the impossible look like? The enfolding tensions of late capitalism are shaped into a coherent yet discomfiting whole.She went outside and walked toward the corner bodega. Once there, she bought a can of seltzer and considered the bodega’s neon display of CBD gummies. An LED sign flashed:HELLO VAPE WORLD MILE HIGH CLUB ITS YOUR YEAR YEAR TO QUITShe bought a pack of regular cigarettes and looked for a socially sanctioned place to smoke.I’m an analog kind of girl too, said a blue-haired woman who was also smoking in the piss-scented alleyway. They exhaled their respective clouds of combustion and pulled their arms more tightly around themselves.She nodded. We evolved around the communal fire; think about that.She didn’t like to inhale too deeply anymore.Hey babe. Ordered u a yummy fleischsalat.She finished her cigarette and went back inside the gallery. Two other writers she recognized had also come to preview the installation. She waved hello and approached them, catching the last fragments of their conversation.Dude must have paid a shit ton to ship all this metal. Wonder how he harvested these car parts.Probably dispatched a crew of interns to a Third World junkyard, then mobilized another crew to receive them in Berlin, where they breathed toxic fumes and shaved off years of their life for vague proximity to art-world fame.That envy talking? I’m feeling a takedown coming.A slammed door.The artist walked out, shouting, Yes, yes, I know. See you at breakfast. Good luck.The two critics congratulated him, patting him amiably. Thank you, thank you, the artist said, shaking his head. All of you are much too kind.Everything okay? She asked.They really need me to get dinner with this Saudi prince. A collector they’re courting.Don’t you have to go? Big payday, no?There are so many princes. Can’t keep track of them all.Hey, you. Aren’t you taking me somewhere? He suddenly prodded her, as though they had been interrupted mid-conversation. Aren’t you taking me out for a drink to talk nuts and bolts and hammered grommets?Her phone lit up in her palm.Cake is about to have a meltdown, lol. When u coming????Only if now’s a good time for you …No no, she protested, typing fast.Honey don’t wait for meShe looked up.Seriously. Do you have somewhere to be?The cab driver turned north onto the West Side Highway. I can’t stand these screens, the artist said, jabbing at the mounted tablet in front of them. What trash. The touch screen was desensitized with a filmy layer of grease, the cumulative tapping of many dirty hands. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. he said, pressing hard. The sound muted, he settled back into his seat and turned toward her. His hands floated up and down his legs.Everyone wants your attention, she said. Royalty, technology. How do you manage?Yes. I do need to get away from it all. He sighed in a melodramatic way. Well, that’s the life of a world-famous artist.Another one of his jokes. She cracked a smile.Don’t I manage to give you my undivided attention?Not really, she said. But I don’t expect it from you.He mimed a punctured heart and smiled that winning smile.It might not appear as such, he said, but I’m an insanely jealous person. I am very aware of this flaw in myself. I don’t like to have any distractions.He pulled her closer.What have you been thinking about? Ever since you arrived, your mind seems elsewhere.He was smiling even more broadly now, and she was smiling, and they were both smiling at each other like two dumb dogs. A wide, shit-eating grin is how someone would have described it. Had her mouth ever stretched this wide. Had she ever felt this turned on. Had anything ever been this real.He licked his lips. She could see a coating of white at the corners of his mouth, the kind of thick saliva that accrues after too many drugs, or too much talking and not enough water. She pulled slightly away but he grabbed her chin and held it fast as he worked his mouth up and down her neck. Eventually he settled on a spot above her collarbone, attaching and sucking, round and full, like a lamprey on aquarium glass.It hurt a bit; her eyes fluttered open. Behind his head, next to the rear window, was a message for her.Where are you?More and more, whenever she sees a flash of blue—a blue sheet of paper, a framed square of sky—she mistakes it for her phone. Electricity jolts through her entire body.This time, the dangling seat-belt buckle had reflected the blue from the Chelsea Piers sign.Yesterday, I was reading about birds, she wanted to say. That’s what I was doing. Have you ever thought about how a bird is like a kind of machine?One clammy hand was already under her shirt, flicking her nipple through her bra. The other hand crawled up her thigh, a thumb pushing against the nub of her clit.Birds are automatons with a repertoire of preprogrammed behavior. They do everything by instinct. Fly, feed, migrate, mate. An osprey will return to nest in the same place even if it happens to be in the middle of a traffic intersection. A guinea fowl accustomed to flat terrain won’t know to fly over a low mesh fence to get to the other side. It may simply keep running into the barrier, over and over again.You’re ready for this, he moaned. You’re so ready.A bird hardly knows what it’s in love with. A baby cuckoo will push the other baby birds out of the nest, and the parents will keep feeding the parasitic chick. Goslings will bond with whatever moving thing they see in their first minutes of life. I once saw a pigeon guard its nest while its dead mate lay nearby.I’ll be there soon.I’ll be late.I’ll be so late I won’t arrive.Let’s have a drink on the roof at your place, she could say. See the tops of the trees in Central Park. Birds congregate there because there’s little other refuge for miles around, to land, to rest …Don’t wait up for me.Imagine the sheer density in that sliver of green.The driver coughed a few times. She opened her eyes and saw, as they idled at a light, a spectacle of starlings feasting on a fried chicken wing from the garbage. She wanted to look away. Their adaptivity made them repulsive. They could use their intelligence for problem-solving. They could eat anything and live anywhere. They could learn new habits of being.Midtown was fading in the rearview mirror, a cloud of light rising above Times Square. Dots of pink and white, flashing, scintillating.Dizzy with desire, she gazed up at the camera flashes, at the neon tickers. She struggled against the car door, her forehead knocking against glass. He was shoving her out of the cab and through the revolving doors of the hotel.Upstairs, the hotel room was rimmed with glass. She felt the whoosh and boom of being orbited on all sides by a monsoon of light. She approached the window.Isn’t it curious how people always want to be high up and have a bird’s-eye view of things? As if we can’t see what we’re doing down there every single day.Looking down, she thought of a woodcock, with its large, depthless eyes that see better behind than ahead. In her mind’s eye, she saw the patch of field by the schoolyard, where pink-and-white clover grew. Decades ago, she had lost herself in them, pinching stems to string into a necklace. She remembered the green grass, the blue sky, the brown mud, her teacher’s face looming suddenly so close to hers, asking, What do you see? She’d pointed. The iridescent blue of a butterfly’s wing. The woodcock lies quietly on the sidewalk, paralyzed, its neck snapped in two. The heels of commuters click busily around it.But I will learn to adapt, the woman thought. I will be a city bird.

A short story

The woman and her sister had been out jogging by the river when they saw the bird fall from the sky. At first, they mistook it for a falling leaf, but the angle and speed of descent suggested a weightier object. They squatted down like children to inspect the body. A pale-green bird with a cream-colored breast, too delicate for a city bird. They saw nothing above them. No trees or obstructions, just a red fog of diffuse and muddled light.

Poor bird. Why would a bird fall out of the sky like that? It was small enough to have balanced on a single blade of straw. They knew almost nothing about the daily lives of birds, save the pigeons who scampered about, pecking at urban detritus. During mating season, the males chased the females up and down the sidewalks, hopping on, hopping off.

If they had seen the dead bird in a state of decay, they would have simply sidestepped it. But because they’d witnessed the moment it struck the ground, they felt somehow responsible, as though it were a piece of trash that had blown out of their hands.

Shouldn’t we at least put it off to the side, the woman wondered aloud.

Don’t do it, her sister warned. You don’t know what it has.

They left the body, casting a few backward glances. The brief stop made it more difficult to continue running, so they walked for a stretch. The path along the Hudson River was almost empty at that hour. A flock of seagulls bobbed on the water, penned in by a rhomboid of lamplight. A crow perched mutely on a wire.

Before the interruption, she had been telling her sister about the artist. You know, the artist. I profiled him in the magazine several years ago, she reminded her sister, when he was working on the windmill installation? Remember, I shadowed him for a week, and then we took that trip to Montauk? Now he’s back in town to install a new show in Chelsea. Some kind of sculpture—a machine.

The woman’s sister was staring at her phone. She frowned at the lit screen, typing rapidly. What is it? the woman asked, waiting. The concentration on her sister’s face made her wonder if everything was all right. What happened? Her sister finally looked up.

Oh, we ordered a mattress online and now it’s arrived.

The screech of wet bicycle brakes. Water slapping against rock. Her sister was saying, Honestly, it took us forever to decide. Weighing the environmental impact of a new foam mattress versus a used one, cost versus expediency and guilt.

A plane roared overhead, lower than normal, heading to LaGuardia, perhaps. The sky was so woolly, she imagined the runway materializing at the last minute, filling up the entire windshield. A plunge of faith before the tires hit tarmac. The pilot must have a way of knowing where the ground is, she thought. Or the plane’s apparatus must know.

What were you saying just now? her sister asked. Oh, yeah, the artist. The artist who’s coming to town. What about him? I can’t believe you’re still talking to that creep.

In a rare confluence of irregular schedules, the woman and her husband were having dinner together at home, discussing the details of his upcoming birthday party. It was an unremarkable middle-age birthday, and he didn’t want to make a fuss. A small gathering at the German beer hall, he finally decided, and friends could drop in as they wished.

So, I’ll tell everyone Wednesday, he said, because Thursday I have class and Friday I’ll be gone.

What’s on Friday? The woman looked up.

I already told you. I’m going to Connecticut with Miriam.

The woman’s phone buzzed on the table. Her sister: I Googled the dead bird.

But I can’t Wednesday, the woman said. I told that artist I’d see his installation.

Apparently migratory birds get confused by high-rises that emanate light. The storm exacerbated things.

Her husband, scraping off the dishes: Come when you’re finished, then. Can’t take that long to—

A muffled notification pinged on his phone, and he reflexively put a wet hand to his back pocket.

The one we saw could’ve been some kind of warbler. Or vireo?

Okay, don’t steal my idea, but listen to this, he said, picking up the spatula again. Office hours, but for dating.

Birds navigate by feeling the pull of the Earth’s magnetic field.

Why keep up this fake pretense that each date is somehow brand-new, virginal? Line them up. Drop-in model. Thank you, next. He was gesticulating wildly for effect.

Are you experiencing such a volume of matches on your app that you’re wishing for a more expedient model of vetting and exploiting people?

The 9/11 memorial endangers thousands of birds every year.

Very funny.

What’s the arrangement you have with Miriam now, after your little incident? I’m not judging; I’m just curious if she requires you to get tested regularly.

The birds fly around the light, unable to extricate themselves.

We said we wouldn’t talk about details.

They waste precious energy and can die of exhaustion.

And I wonder how you’ll explain to everyone why you’re spending your birthday weekend with her, not with me.

I’ll tell them my wife is very principled; she doesn’t believe in the birthday industrial complex. She believes only in radical transparency, and in emotional blackmail when it suits her.

Put homing pigeons in a dark cage, take them out to sea, and spin them around and around until they’re sick. They’ll still find their way home.

Why do you insist on going through with this?

You were the one who wanted this, not me.

I guess if you want something badly enough, you generally find a way. Throat gonorrhea be damned.

Her husband threw the dish towel on the counter and went into the other room. The woman watched him leave, and wondered whether memory had once served as a kind of homing mechanism. Pillars of light. Remembering how things used to be.

Her mother had told her, over and over, Don’t look at your phone in a dark room. It’s terrible for your eyes. If you have to read, turn on the lights. She looked over now at her husband’s sleeping form, his back turned against her. She dimmed the phone’s brightness to the lowest possible setting. She swiped through various screens but could not retain much of what she saw. Tropical storm, six-foot surge, 150 awaiting rescue. Friend struggling into skinny leather pants in a dressing room. Death toll rising. Waterlogged areas. Urgent closing date upcoming. Dear members of the media—please find attacked the early-preview invitation and other press materials. She stared at the typo. Attacked. She chuckled audibly and took a screenshot. This confrontational language slipped out of people unexpectedly, breaching the surface for oxygen. The other day, a friend wrote to say that she would defiantly be at the café—

The restaurant fan on the roof of their building revved to life. The walls shuddered; a coin on their nightstand began vibrating at an irritating frequency.

Are you kidding me? her husband said, smothering his own head with a pillow. At this fucking hour.

So he hadn’t been asleep.

I’m going to throw myself out the window. I swear to fucking God.

Ass me! they typed on accident, and the occasional Go tit! never got old. Sometimes, meaning to type Done! with her hands in the wrong home position, she typed Die! instead. She eagerly opened the email with the press materials, but before it could fully load, she suddenly remembered what she had wanted to read.

Birds and the Urban Environment: Did you know that the Miracle on the Hudson accident, in which Captain Sully had to perform an emergency landing in the Hudson River, was caused by a bird strike? A bird strike happens when one or many birds collide with a plane. Sometimes birds will be ingested into the jet engine and cause catastrophic engine failure.

Another common problem for birds is called fatal light attraction. You might not know this, but the majority of migrating birds travel at night and utilize the moon and stars for navigation. However, these days, migrating at night has become deadly. Light pollution from urban centers can work alongside fog and storms to disorient birds. Imagine being distracted while you’re trying to complete a marathon or an Ironman event! Even worse, birds often crash into reflective windows, perceiving them as a continuation of the sky. This is one reason it will sometimes “rain birds” after a storm.

Help us! Have you seen these birds?

She’d opened up another article, which mentioned the case of a strange tropical bird, with a flat, “lizard shaped” head, that could not leave Times Square. It was most likely an escaped species from a collector’s menagerie. Otherwise it had blown in from somewhere. Tourists pointed and gawked as it slammed helplessly into glass doors and flapped against the panels of glowing screens.

Still up?

Hey! Here finally?

I’m really looking forward to seeing you.

As though on cue, a pink aura—a kind of sparkling rainbow mash—appeared on the borders of her vision. She clicked her screen closed.

You don’t find instant connections easily, an elderly man on the bus had once told her, unsolicited.

Five or six times in a lifetime, that’s all.

The phone glowed again.

Will I see you at the gallery tomorrow?

Yes, of course.

Then nothing. Perhaps he was going through customs, or the reception was weak. She stared at the window expectantly. When the text came through, it was a picture of him with an inflatable travel pillow around his neck.

Was a selfie always an invitation for another selfie? Impossible in the dark, here, in bed. She could send a joke in response. Or the screenshot of the gallery’s typo. She opened her sister’s chat window to work out the text draft there, so he wouldn’t see her typing.

Who are you talking to? Please. I’m begging you. I have to get to campus early, her husband said.

My sister. I’m almost done.

We forgot to do the laundry. Tomorrow, okay?

She sent her screenshot, clicked off the phone, and shoved it under her pillow. She imagined vibrations against her ear but forced herself not to look.

This is a momentary infatuation and it will dissipate soon, she thought. I have nothing to confess.

Sweetie, you’re obsessed with being good, her friend had said once, to tease her. Secret feelings aren’t the same as actions.

In her daily life, nothing that was felt could be acted upon; what could be acted upon followed routines of inertia or necessity. To be an adult was to feel a thing and walk away from it. To feel anxiety and know its baselessness, to feel jealousy and chalk it up to insecurity. To feel the need to run out of the train, screaming, yet remain completely still, unruffled.

Her husband began snoring.

She closed her eyes and put her hand into her underwear.

Before she fell asleep, she thought about the Mandarin duck that had appeared one day in a pond in Central Park. The duck was dazzling, with high-contrast plumage reminiscent of a Peking-opera mask. Its arrival had felt like a very special occasion, like a visit from a prime minister. Now, according to the articles, the duck paddled around with the common mallards, circling idly for crumbs of bread. Visitors flocked to take its photo. Beautiful things want to be replicated, so philosophers say. Was this visitation beautiful? The unfathomable longing of this wayward bird that wakes one day in a man-made pond, alone among strangers.

The woman spent most of the next morning in bed. In the middle of the night, the artist had sent an audio file—no subject, no body, just a recording of himself playing scales on the guitar. Higher, faster, changing keys, breaking off into riffs and climaxes. The file had gone on for 10 minutes. She hadn’t understood his intention, but her gut had kicked so violently that she’d had to take several shits.

After she’d listened to the file, she’d dug around online for his past interviews, trying to summon his actual voice. She’d found a short documentary on public television, but the green of his shirt had put her off. Next, she’d scrolled through Google Image search, looking for new pictures, then the tagged photos on his social-media profile, and had found one of him looking at the camera with a dreamy, postcoital expression. She had masturbated to this and now she was late, speed-walking to the gallery.

She was sweaty in the unseasonable humidity, and her hair was wilting. She could feel the sting of salt in the fresh wound in the corner of her mouth. Getting ready, she’d picked at a patch of dead skin until it bled.

Miriam just picked up the cake! Can’t wait to see you all!

She approached the gallery and saw a block of text pasted on the white wall at the entrance. Underneath was his name in big black lettering.

APORIA
PETER FANG-CAPRA

Inside, workers on ladders with buckets of black paint were brushing an enormous contraption of pneumatic valves and tubes and elbows. She saw him up there, craning his neck and pointing a finger along a ribbed piece that linked to a mechanical lung. The artist looked the way she’d remembered … perhaps more diminutive.

Her voice was lost in the din. Hey, do you guys need some help?

He climbed down from the ladder.

Look who’s here, at the very end of the day.

She stiffened in his embrace.

I thought you would show up earlier. Come. We tried to save some of the work so you could see.

Gripping her forearm, he led her underneath some scaffolding, and they stood before a maze of freshly oiled pieces, on a blue tarp, that had yet to be lifted into the sculpture. He gestured toward a metal chamber. An organ? The apparatus seemed to follow the logic of utility, but if one looked closely, the structure had no observable function. Where things ended or began was impossible to say. Head, tail, mouth, or anus. She took out her phone to take photos.

We’re here by the bathrooms. Got two tables. Taking all bier and wurst orders!

By the way, I’m sorry about that file I sent, he said. Please don’t listen to it. I play scales when I’m nervous, and it helps calm me down.

Too late. I listened to the whole thing on repeat when I went for a run this morning.

I’m so embarrassed.

You’re really good at the guitar.

Abruptly, he grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.

Don’t turn now. My gallerist is walking rapidly toward us with a very determined expression. Pretend we’re invisible. Oh God, she’s looking for me. She’s quite mad. I’ll have to be right back.

She watched as he danced off to intercept a tall, finely dressed woman. They retreated into a back office and closed the door behind them.

The woman looked again at her phone.

dang you dense girl
homeboy turning up the charm so you’ll write a good review
that simple
heard a thing or two about him
be careful kk love

Alone, the woman tried to look preoccupied and circled the machine, as though studying its craftmanship. She had long reached the end of her observations. She took out her phone again, scrolled through her email, and opened up the press materials.

“Is my death possible?” asks Jacques Derrida in Aporias. How can one experience that which is impossible to experience? In this new sculptural work, Fang-Capra asks whether the future itself is aporetic, a pipe dream or a mirage. Materials of modernity comprise this convoluted structure; discourses of biopolitical and emotional disaster are limned by discarded pipes and sheet metal. What would a machine of the impossible look like? The enfolding tensions of late capitalism are shaped into a coherent yet discomfiting whole.

She went outside and walked toward the corner bodega. Once there, she bought a can of seltzer and considered the bodega’s neon display of CBD gummies. An LED sign flashed:

HELLO VAPE WORLD
MILE HIGH CLUB
ITS YOUR YEAR
YEAR TO QUIT

She bought a pack of regular cigarettes and looked for a socially sanctioned place to smoke.

I’m an analog kind of girl too, said a blue-haired woman who was also smoking in the piss-scented alleyway. They exhaled their respective clouds of combustion and pulled their arms more tightly around themselves.

She nodded. We evolved around the communal fire; think about that.

She didn’t like to inhale too deeply anymore.

Hey babe. Ordered u a yummy fleischsalat.

She finished her cigarette and went back inside the gallery. Two other writers she recognized had also come to preview the installation. She waved hello and approached them, catching the last fragments of their conversation.

Dude must have paid a shit ton to ship all this metal. Wonder how he harvested these car parts.

Probably dispatched a crew of interns to a Third World junkyard, then mobilized another crew to receive them in Berlin, where they breathed toxic fumes and shaved off years of their life for vague proximity to art-world fame.

That envy talking? I’m feeling a takedown coming.

A slammed door.

The artist walked out, shouting, Yes, yes, I know. See you at breakfast. Good luck.

The two critics congratulated him, patting him amiably. Thank you, thank you, the artist said, shaking his head. All of you are much too kind.

Everything okay? She asked.

They really need me to get dinner with this Saudi prince. A collector they’re courting.

Don’t you have to go? Big payday, no?

There are so many princes. Can’t keep track of them all.

Hey, you. Aren’t you taking me somewhere? He suddenly prodded her, as though they had been interrupted mid-conversation. Aren’t you taking me out for a drink to talk nuts and bolts and hammered grommets?

Her phone lit up in her palm.

Cake is about to have a meltdown, lol. When u coming????

Only if now’s a good time for you …

No no, she protested, typing fast.

Honey don’t wait for me

She looked up.

Seriously. Do you have somewhere to be?

The cab driver turned north onto the West Side Highway. I can’t stand these screens, the artist said, jabbing at the mounted tablet in front of them. What trash. The touch screen was desensitized with a filmy layer of grease, the cumulative tapping of many dirty hands. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. he said, pressing hard. The sound muted, he settled back into his seat and turned toward her. His hands floated up and down his legs.

Everyone wants your attention, she said. Royalty, technology. How do you manage?

Yes. I do need to get away from it all. He sighed in a melodramatic way. Well, that’s the life of a world-famous artist.

Another one of his jokes. She cracked a smile.

Don’t I manage to give you my undivided attention?

Not really, she said. But I don’t expect it from you.

He mimed a punctured heart and smiled that winning smile.

It might not appear as such, he said, but I’m an insanely jealous person. I am very aware of this flaw in myself. I don’t like to have any distractions.

He pulled her closer.

What have you been thinking about? Ever since you arrived, your mind seems elsewhere.

He was smiling even more broadly now, and she was smiling, and they were both smiling at each other like two dumb dogs. A wide, shit-eating grin is how someone would have described it. Had her mouth ever stretched this wide. Had she ever felt this turned on. Had anything ever been this real.

He licked his lips. She could see a coating of white at the corners of his mouth, the kind of thick saliva that accrues after too many drugs, or too much talking and not enough water. She pulled slightly away but he grabbed her chin and held it fast as he worked his mouth up and down her neck. Eventually he settled on a spot above her collarbone, attaching and sucking, round and full, like a lamprey on aquarium glass.

It hurt a bit; her eyes fluttered open. Behind his head, next to the rear window, was a message for her.

Where are you?

More and more, whenever she sees a flash of blue—a blue sheet of paper, a framed square of sky—she mistakes it for her phone. Electricity jolts through her entire body.

This time, the dangling seat-belt buckle had reflected the blue from the Chelsea Piers sign.

Yesterday, I was reading about birds, she wanted to say. That’s what I was doing. Have you ever thought about how a bird is like a kind of machine?

One clammy hand was already under her shirt, flicking her nipple through her bra. The other hand crawled up her thigh, a thumb pushing against the nub of her clit.

Birds are automatons with a repertoire of preprogrammed behavior. They do everything by instinct. Fly, feed, migrate, mate. An osprey will return to nest in the same place even if it happens to be in the middle of a traffic intersection. A guinea fowl accustomed to flat terrain won’t know to fly over a low mesh fence to get to the other side. It may simply keep running into the barrier, over and over again.

You’re ready for this, he moaned. You’re so ready.

A bird hardly knows what it’s in love with. A baby cuckoo will push the other baby birds out of the nest, and the parents will keep feeding the parasitic chick. Goslings will bond with whatever moving thing they see in their first minutes of life. I once saw a pigeon guard its nest while its dead mate lay nearby.

I’ll be there soon.

I’ll be late.

I’ll be so late I won’t arrive.

Let’s have a drink on the roof at your place, she could say. See the tops of the trees in Central Park. Birds congregate there because there’s little other refuge for miles around, to land, to rest …

Don’t wait up for me.

Imagine the sheer density in that sliver of green.

The driver coughed a few times. She opened her eyes and saw, as they idled at a light, a spectacle of starlings feasting on a fried chicken wing from the garbage. She wanted to look away. Their adaptivity made them repulsive. They could use their intelligence for problem-solving. They could eat anything and live anywhere. They could learn new habits of being.

Midtown was fading in the rearview mirror, a cloud of light rising above Times Square. Dots of pink and white, flashing, scintillating.

Dizzy with desire, she gazed up at the camera flashes, at the neon tickers. She struggled against the car door, her forehead knocking against glass. He was shoving her out of the cab and through the revolving doors of the hotel.

Upstairs, the hotel room was rimmed with glass. She felt the whoosh and boom of being orbited on all sides by a monsoon of light. She approached the window.

Isn’t it curious how people always want to be high up and have a bird’s-eye view of things? As if we can’t see what we’re doing down there every single day.

Looking down, she thought of a woodcock, with its large, depthless eyes that see better behind than ahead. In her mind’s eye, she saw the patch of field by the schoolyard, where pink-and-white clover grew. Decades ago, she had lost herself in them, pinching stems to string into a necklace. She remembered the green grass, the blue sky, the brown mud, her teacher’s face looming suddenly so close to hers, asking, What do you see? She’d pointed. The iridescent blue of a butterfly’s wing. The woodcock lies quietly on the sidewalk, paralyzed, its neck snapped in two. The heels of commuters click busily around it.

But I will learn to adapt, the woman thought. I will be a city bird.

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

Steelhead trout rescued from Palisades fire spawn in their new Santa Barbara County home

After a stressful journey out of the burn zone in Malibu, the endangered trout have spawned in their adopted stream in Santa Barbara County.

Wildlife officials feared critically endangered steelhead trout rescued from the Palisades fire burn scar might not be up for spawning after all they’d been through over the last few months.After their watershed in the Santa Monica Mountains was scorched in January, the fish were stunned with electricity, scooped up in buckets, trucked to a hatchery, fed unfamiliar food and then moved to a different creek. It was all part of a liberation effort pulled off in the nick of time. “This whole thing is just a very stressful and traumatic event, and I’m happy that we didn’t really kill many fish,” said Kyle Evans, an environmental program manager for the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, which led the rescue. “But I was concerned that I might have just disrupted this whole months-long process of getting ready to spawn.” Steelhead were once abundant in Southern California, but their numbers plummeted amid coastal development and overfishing. A distinct Southern California population is listed as endangered at the state and federal level. (Alex Vejar / California Department of Fish and Wildlife) But this month spawn they did.It’s believed that there are now more than 100 baby trout swishing around their new digs in Arroyo Hondo Creek in Santa Barbara County.Their presence is a triumph — for the species and for their adopted home.However, more fish require more suitable habitat, which is lacking in Southern California — in part due to drought and the increased frequency of devastating wildfires. Steelhead trout are the same species as rainbow trout, but they have different lifestyles. Steelheads migrate to the ocean and return to their natal streams to spawn, while rainbows spend their lives in freshwater.Steelhead were once abundant in Southern California, but their numbers plummeted amid coastal development and overfishing. A distinct Southern California population is listed as endangered at the state and federal level.The young fish sighted this month mark the next generation of what was the last population of steelhead in the Santa Monica Mountains, a range that stretches from the Hollywood Hills to Point Mugu in Ventura County. They also represent the return of a species to a watershed that itself was devastated by a fire four years ago, but has since recovered. It’s believed that there are now more than 100 baby trout swishing around their new digs in Arroyo Hondo Creek in Santa Barbara County. (Kyle Kusa / Land Trust for Santa Barbara County) The Alisal blaze torched roughly 95% of the Arroyo Hondo Preserve located west of Santa Barbara, and subsequent debris flows choked the creek of the same name that housed steelhead. All the fish perished, according to Meredith Hendricks, executive director of the Land Trust for Santa Barbara County, a nonprofit organization that owns and manages the preserve.“To be able to … offer space for these fish to be transplanted to — when we ourselves had experienced a similar situation but lost our fish — it was just a really big deal,” Hendricks said. Arroyo Hondo Creek bears similarities to the trout’s native Topanga Creek; they are both coastal streams of roughly the same size. And it has a bonus feature: a state-funded fish passage constructed under Highway 101 in 2008, which improved fish movement between the stream and the ocean.Spawning is a biologically and energetically demanding endeavor for steelhead, and the process likely began in December or earlier, according to Evans.That means it was already underway when 271 steelhead were evacuated in January from Topanga Creek, a biodiversity hot spot located in Malibu that was badly damaged by the Palisades fire.It continued when they were hauled about 50 miles north to a hatchery in Fillmore, where they hung out until 266 of them made it to Arroyo Hondo the following month.State wildlife personnel regularly surveyed the fish in their new digs but didn’t see the spawning nests, which can be missed. VIDEO | 00:16 Steelhead trout in Arroyo Hondo Creek in Santa Barbara County Steelhead trout in Arroyo Hondo Creek in Santa Barbara County. (Calif. Dept. of Fish & Game) Then, on April 7, Evans got a text message from the Land Trust’s land programs director, Leslie Chan, with a video that appeared to show a freshly hatched young-of-the-year — the wonky name for fish born during the steelheads’ sole annual spawn.The following day, Evans’ team was dispatched to the creek and confirmed the discovery. They tallied about 100 of the newly hatched fish. The young trout span roughly one inch and, as Evans put it, aren’t too bright. They hang out in the shallows and don’t bolt from predators.“They’re kind of just happy to be alive, and they’re not really trying to hide,” he said.By the end of summer, Evans estimates two-thirds will die off. But the survivors are enough to keep the population charging onward. Evans hopes that in a few years, there will be three to four times the number of fish that initially moved in.The plan is to eventually relocate at least some back to their native home of Topanga Creek.Right now, Topanga “looks pretty bad,” Evans said. The Palisades fire stripped the surrounding hillsides of vegetation, paving the way for dirt, ash and other material to pour into the waterway. Another endangered fish, northern tidewater gobies, were rescued from the same watershed shortly before the steelhead were liberated. Within two days of the trouts’ removal, the first storm of the season arrived, likely burying the remaining fish in a muddy slurry. Citizen scientists Bernard Yin, center, and Rebecca Ramirez, right, join government agency staffers in rescuing federally endangered fish in the Topanga Lagoon in Malibu on Jan. 17. (Christina House / Los Angeles Times) Evans expects it will be about four years before Topanga Creek is ready to support steelhead again, based on his experience observing streams recover after the Thomas, Woolsey, Alisal and other fires. There’s also discussion about moving around steelhead to create backup populations should calamity befall one, as well as boost genetic diversity of the rare fish.For example, some of the steelhead saved from Topanga could be moved to Malibu Creek, another stream in the Santa Monica Mountains that empties into Santa Monica Bay. There are efforts underway to remove the 100-foot Rindge Dam in Malibu Creek to open up more habitat for the fish.“As we saw, if you have one population in the Santa Monica Mountains and a fire happens, you could just lose it forever,” Evans said. “So having fish in multiple areas is the kind of way to defend against that.”With the Topanga Creek steelhead biding their time up north, it’s believed there are none currently inhabiting the Santa Monicas. Habitat restoration is key for the species’ survival, according to Evans, who advocates for directing funding to such efforts, including soon-to-come-online money from Proposition 4, a $10-billion bond measure to finance water, clean energy and other environmental projects.“It doesn’t matter how many fish you have, or if you’re growing them in a hatchery, or what you’re doing,” he said. “If they can’t be supported on the landscape, then there’s no point.”Some trout will end up making their temporary lodging permanent, according to Hendricks, of the Land Trust. Arroyo Hondo is a long creek with plenty of nooks and crannies for trout to hide in. So when it comes time to bring the steelhead home, she said, “I’m sure some will get left behind.”

Chicago Teachers Union secures clean energy wins in new contract

The Chicago Teachers Union expects its new, hard-fought contract to help drive clean energy investments and train the next generation of clean energy workers, even as the Trump administration attacks such priorities. The contract approved by 97% of union members this month represents the first time the union has…

The Chicago Teachers Union expects its new, hard-fought contract to help drive clean energy investments and train the next generation of clean energy workers, even as the Trump administration attacks such priorities. The contract approved by 97% of union members this month represents the first time the union has bargained with school officials specifically around climate change and energy, said union Vice President Jackson Potter. The deal still needs to be approved by the Chicago Board of Education. If approved, the contract will result in new programs that prepare students for clean energy jobs, developed in collaboration with local labor unions. It mandates that district officials work with the teachers union to seek funding for clean energy investments and update a climate action plan by 2026. And it calls for installing heat pumps and outfitting 30 schools with solar panels — if funding can be secured. During almost a year of contentious negotiations, the more than 25,000-member union had also demanded paid climate-educator positions, an all-electric school bus fleet, and that all newly constructed schools be carbon-free. While those provisions did not end up in the final agreement, leaders say the four-year contract is a ​“transformative” victory that sets the stage for more ambitious demands next time. “This contract is setting the floor of what we hope we can accomplish,” said Lauren Bianchi, who taught social studies at George Washington High School on the city’s South Side for six years before becoming green schools organizer for the union. ​“It shows we can win on climate, even despite Trump.” The climate-related provisions are part of what the Chicago Teachers Union and an increasing number of unions nationwide refer to as ​“common good” demands, meant to benefit not only their members in the workplace but the entire community. In this and its 2019 contract, the Chicago union also won ​“common good” items such as protections for immigrant students and teachers, and affordable housing–related measures. The new contract also guarantees teachers academic freedom at a time when the federal government is trying to limit schools from teaching materials related to diversity, equity, and inclusion. “Black history, Indigenous history, climate science — that’s protected instruction now,” said Potter. Chicago Public Schools did not respond to emailed questions for this story, except to forward a press release that did not mention clean energy provisions. Training Chicago’s students for clean energy jobs The union crafted its proposals based on discussions with three environmental and community organizations, Bianchi said — the Southeast Environmental Task Force, People for Community Recovery, and ONE Northside. The Southeast Environmental Task Force led the successful fight to ban new petcoke storage in Chicago, and the group’s co-executive director Olga Bautista is also vice president of the 21-member school board. People for Community Recovery was founded by Hazel Johnson, who is often known as ​“the mother of the environmental justice movement.” And ONE Northside emphasizes the link between clean energy and affordable housing. Clean energy job training was a priority for all three of the organizations, Potter said. Under the contract, the union and district officials will work with other labor unions to create pre-apprenticeship programs for students, which are crucial to entering the union-dominated building trades to install solar, do energy-efficiency overhauls, and electrify homes with heat pumps and other technology. The contract demands the district create one specific new clean energy jobs pathway program during each year of the four-year contract. It also mandates renovating schools for energy efficiency and installing modern HVAC systems, and orders the school district to work with trade unions to create opportunities for Chicago Public Schools students and graduates to be hired for such work. “The people in the community have identified jobs and economic justice as being essential for environmental justice,” said Bianchi. ​“I’ve mostly taught juniors and seniors; a lot expressed frustration that college is not their plan. They wish they could learn job skills to enter a trade.” Chicago schools progress on solar, energy efficiency, and electrification Installing solar could help the district meet its clean energy goals, which include sourcing 100% of its electricity from renewables by this year. The district has invested more than $6 million in energy efficiency and efficient lighting since 2018, and cut its carbon dioxide emissions by more than 27,000 metric tons, school district spokesperson Evan Moore told Canary Media last fall as contract negotiations were proceeding. The schools are eligible for subsidized solar panels under the state Illinois Shines program, and they can tap the federal 30% investment tax credit for solar arrays, with a new direct-pay option tailored to tax-exempt organizations like schools.

Costa Rica Proposes Strict Penalties for Illegal National Park Entries

Costa Rica is cracking down on illegal entries into its national parks and protected areas, citing dangers to visitors and environmental harm. Franz Tattenbach, Minister of Environment and Energy (MINAE), has called on lawmakers to approve a bill imposing fines of up to ¢2.3 million (approximately $4,400) on individuals and tour operators who access these […] The post Costa Rica Proposes Strict Penalties for Illegal National Park Entries appeared first on The Tico Times | Costa Rica News | Travel | Real Estate.

Costa Rica is cracking down on illegal entries into its national parks and protected areas, citing dangers to visitors and environmental harm. Franz Tattenbach, Minister of Environment and Energy (MINAE), has called on lawmakers to approve a bill imposing fines of up to ¢2.3 million (approximately $4,400) on individuals and tour operators who access these areas without authorization. Over 500 unauthorized entries into Costa Rica’s 30 national parks and reserves, have been reported so far this year. High-risk areas like Poás, Turrialba, Rincón de la Vieja, and Arenal volcanoes are frequent targets, where illegal tours bypass safety protocols. Unscrupulous operators promote these “exclusive” experiences on social media, often lacking insurance, safety equipment, or trained guides. “These operators abandon clients if intercepted by authorities, leaving them vulnerable in hazardous areas,” Tattenbach said. Poás Volcano National Park, closed since March 26 due to seismic activity and ash emissions, remains a hotspot for illegal tours. The proposed bill, under discussion by MINAE and the National System of Conservation Areas (SINAC), would introduce fines ranging from ¢1.3 million to ¢2.3 million ($2,500 to $4,400) for unauthorized entry, targeting both operators and participants. If a rescue operation is required, involving the Costa Rican Red Cross or MINAE personnel, an additional fine of ¢2.3 million ($4,400) could be imposed. Current laws penalize illegal entry under Article 58 of Forestry Law 7575, with three months to three years in prison, but enforcement is inconsistent. The new bill aims to strengthen deterrence. “These hikes involve steep slopes, toxic gases, and the risk of volcanic eruptions, which can be fatal,” Tattenbach warned, citing the 2017 Poás eruption that closed the park for over a year. Illegal entries also threaten Costa Rica’s biodiversity, which includes 5% of the world’s species. Unauthorized trails disrupt ecosystems and increase risks of poaching, according to Jorge Mario Rodríguez, Vice Minister of Environment. The Volcanological and Seismological Observatory of Costa Rica (OVSICORI) monitors volcanic activity to inform park closures, but illegal tours undermine these safety measures. Increased Surveillance SINAC, the Costa Rican Fire Department, Red Cross, and Police Force will intensify surveillance going forward, targeting high-risk national parks and roadways to prevent unauthorized access, wildlife extraction, hunting, and trade in protected flora and fauna. “These operations safeguard our natural heritage and ensure visitor safety,” Tattenbach said. SINAC’s year-round efforts have intercepted numerous illegal tours in 2025. Visiting Parks Safely: MINAE and SINAC urge visitors to use authorized operators and purchase tickets via the SINAC website or park entrances. Guided tours, available through platforms like Viator or Get Your Guide, offer safe experiences in parks like Manuel Antonio or Corcovado. Tourists should check park statuses before planning visits, as closures due to volcanic activity or weather are common. “Respecting regulations protects both you and Costa Rica’s natural treasures,” Rodríguez said. Preserving Ecotourism: As the proposed bill awaits Legislative Assembly review, MINAE urges compliance to maintain Costa Rica’s status as a global conservation leader. For updates on the bill or park regulations, visit MINAE’s Website The post Costa Rica Proposes Strict Penalties for Illegal National Park Entries appeared first on The Tico Times | Costa Rica News | Travel | Real Estate.

Why is it so expensive to build affordable homes in California? It takes too long

Guest Commentary written by Jason Ward Jason Ward is co-director of the RAND Center on Housing and Homelessness. He is also an economist at RAND and a professor of policy analysis at Pardee RAND Graduate School. The spiraling cost of housing in California has affected virtually every facet of life. California has the nation’s largest […]

Guest Commentary written by Jason Ward Jason Ward is co-director of the RAND Center on Housing and Homelessness. He is also an economist at RAND and a professor of policy analysis at Pardee RAND Graduate School. The spiraling cost of housing in California has affected virtually every facet of life. California has the nation’s largest unsheltered homeless population and among the highest rates of cost-burdened renters and overcrowded homes. One reason for the seemingly endless upward trajectory of rents is how expensive it is to build new apartments in California. Those costs are a major contributor to “break-even rents,” or what must be charged for a project to be financially feasible.  I recently led a study that compared total apartment development costs in California to those in Colorado and Texas. The average apartment in Texas costs roughly $150,000 to produce; in California, building the same apartment costs around $430,000, or 2.8 times more. Colorado occupies a middle ground, with an average cost of around $240,000 per unit. For publicly subsidized, affordable apartments — a sector that California has spent billions on in recent years — the gap is even worse. These cost over four times as much as affordable apartment units do in Colorado and Texas. There’s no single factor driving these huge differences. Land costs in California are over three times the Texas average. “Hard costs,” or those related to improving the land and constructing buildings, are 2.2 times those in Texas. California’s “soft costs,” which include financing, architectural and engineering fees, and development fees charged by local governments, are 3.8 times the Texas average.  There are some unavoidable California-specific costs, like ensuring buildings are resilient to shaking from earthquakes. But the truly lifesaving seismic requirements explain only around 6% of hard-cost differences, the study estimated. The state’s strict energy efficiency requirements add around 7%. California’s high cost of living may drive up the price of labor, but we found that construction wage differences explain only 6% to 10% of hard cost differences for market-rate apartments. However, for publicly subsidized apartment projects, which are often mandated to pay union-level wages, labor expenses explain as much as 20% to 35% of the total difference in costs between California and Texas.  “Soft costs” in California are a major culprit. California property developers pay remarkably high fees for architectural and engineering services — triple the average cost in Texas. It’s five times as much or more if you’re building publicly funded, affordable apartments in the Los Angeles and San Francisco metro areas.  Read Next Explainers Californians: Here’s why your housing costs are so high by Ben Christopher and Manuela Tobias Seismic engineering requirements play a role. The bigger factor are complex and burdensome design requirements for affordable housing. These are dictated by state and local funding sources, and have little to do with habitability or safety but contribute substantially to these astonishing differences.  Development fees to local governments make up the largest soft-cost difference in California. Such fees, which were the subject of a 2024 U.S. Supreme Court case, average around $30,000 per unit. In Texas, the average is about $800. (Again, Colorado occupies a middle ground at around $12,000.)  In San Diego, for example, these fees on average eat up 14% of total development costs per apartment. But the biggest thing driving up California apartment costs? Time.  A privately financed apartment building that takes just over two years to produce from start to finish in Texas would take over four years in California. It takes twice as long to gain project approvals and the construction timeline is 1.5 times longer.  That means land costs must be carried for longer, equipment and labor are on jobsites longer, and that loans are taken out for a longer term, and so on.  Most of the differences that the study uncovered stem from policy choices made by state and local governments. Many are legacies of the so-called “slow growth movement” in California, which has shaped housing production since the 1980s.  Those efforts worked. Population growth in the state went negative for a few years after 2020, due primarily to the high cost of housing. Even more recently, California’s growth was half the numbers seen in Texas and Florida, with younger and higher earners disproportionately leaving.  These departures have dire implications for the state’s fiscal future and political influence nationally. California recently lost a congressional seat for the first time in its history. If current national population trends hold, it could lose four or five seats in 2030. The California Legislature has become increasingly focused on reducing the cost of living, but meeting this goal requires substantial progress on lowering housing costs. New proposals to exempt urban infill housing production from state environmental law and a package of permitting reforms are steps in that direction.  Will policymakers also take lessons from Texas and Colorado’s cheaper housing methods? That remains to be seen. But the future of California may well hinge on it.

Suggested Viewing

Join us to forge
a sustainable future

Our team is always growing.
Become a partner, volunteer, sponsor, or intern today.
Let us know how you would like to get involved!

CONTACT US

sign up for our mailing list to stay informed on the latest films and environmental headlines.

Subscribers receive a free day pass for streaming Cinema Verde.
Thank you! Your submission has been received!
Oops! Something went wrong while submitting the form.