by Bill Wylie-Kellermann

Come morning we found her.

Cedar boy crosses the road from the school bus wait

To check the ant colony he watches,

There the yearling deer curled beneath the white pine.

Dead? No, dying of a car strike in the night

Truly, our roads, all roads, and vehicles are deadly violence

Plowing into multitudes

Collateral roadkill of fueled industry.

Not to mention one another.

Her left front is cracked and limp.

I’m unable not to think of other limbs,

The limbs of children, cracked or torn in rubble.

I bring out a stool to vigil bedside her;

In a frantic scuttle, she’s moved herself to a 

final place spread on the drive.

the warmth sought of morning sun?

just arriving where all things fail?

Vigil begins in earnest

My hand on her withers 

First calms, then agitates.

Stepping back, I speak comfort and pray

Sing hymns and chant.

Enormous ears reach and turn.

(first tears here)

Flies, though few, find her wounds and partake;

A crow skims the view

Then wheels for a second pass and calls.

Not yet carrion.

Children’s faces sunk with hunger

Haunt my vigil and the beating sun.

(tears compounding)

A white SUV pulls over

“you’re not a hunter,” he says to the obvious

(noting my tears?) and 

offering to shorten the misery with his gun

“though not strictly legal.” 

I consider the grace

But don’t want to add a bullet to it all.

Her breath comes quick, like panting

From a race or a chase till now outrun.

“It’s alright,” I say, “You can let go.”

Bladder and bowels do release

black pellets and the downhill pour of urine.

The hospitals are all destroyed. Rubbled

Shells in forbidden land.

No one left to count the officially dead.

I’ve been unalerted when the game warden’s pickup

Backs down the drive to her feet,

A rack ready to scoop and cradle her.

His uniform is notably combat ready

A thick flack jacket, no doubt for

Facing down errant or belligerent hunters

In the wood.

Her breath has now slowed, the eye

Open in a blank stare, her ears

No longer tensed and large, but back flat. 

Something shifting.

He assesses, concluding

A need to put the animal down. “I have a 22.”

But I urge, she’s actively dying. Can we not wait and let her?

No, it could be a while yet.

In the end, it is a bullet. the final and necessary solution.

The drive runs red, and she thrashes in its pool.

“just nerves firing.”

He must think my tears strange or weak.

He comforts me: “it is unfortunate.”

I watch him pull away. Where are they taking her?

hosing down the drive, though

Can’t bear to scrub its stain completely.

This morning, two deer walk the edge across the road.

Are they seeking her? aching to lick her wounds?