Dark February Friday morning. Work just a few miles further.
Sinking into thoughts of a stream I fished:
Afternoon, cresting a hill staring down into Henry’s Valley.
The stone were freer as they tumbled down this ravine,
in return they were rewarded with a plethora of cold springs.
A dog fur patch of maples, rhododendron, oaks, and beeches severed by Laurel Run.
Ice shelves creating pocket water
and opaque slices up and downstream.
A frozen over beaver pond
to fish in the spring once
A flash from the left
Headlights scrape across the buck’s antlers
leaning forward, full throttle gallop.
Coming up over the hill, careening through the last stand of cherry trees
into the fallow field. There were sunflowers there just three months ago, staring
at the sun all day, now, brown and, in the right light, a gray that escapes itself
when the snow
probably me, and then,
the crush of flesh, muscle, bone
headlight, bumper, hood, door,
all caving in, imploding in a moment
of fleshy machinery
the body whipping around, tagging my back door before
flipping out into the other lane, brushing a passing car.
Buck fur stuck, sticky, smeared across the door.
The dark shut out by the headlights of cars going to work.
Walking through the field, smashing short dead stalks
to find his body.
Turning around, swaying back and forth,
a bloody antler at my feet.