Marjorie A. Buettner
After the deer was hit, it rolled its head stunned and bleeding, one antler half off, the other broken, its tongue hanging limply out of its mouth. I want the deer to die. I want to be asleep at home in dream without these horrible images burned in my memory.
Instead, from the corner of my eye, in the rear view mirror I see the deer struggle to its feet and limp to the other side of the road to enter the woods, leaving a trail of blood on the road.
the last hold of leaves
on the branch