on a dead deer

the highway asphalt. reeks of exhaust and burnt rubber. the cars and trucks go by. the sun boiling and you rotting. an eye fixed on a sea of green beeches. only one of your antlers unbroken. pointing up to the mountains.

does your herd still graze on daffodil meadows? does your doe stand alone. waiting for your grunt call? does your fawn know that it must face the wolves and game hunters alone?

eventually. the vultures will pick off what’s left. eventually. the roadkill wagon will carry you off. or eventually . . . you’ll be light enough for the rain to wash away.

yet now. your fawn dares itself to cross the river. its head and antler stubs. just above the rapids.

                        highway traffic
above the tree line
the mountain view