I do not know when she had been hit, or by what. But the young doe lay motionless in the snow-covered grass a few feet from the roadway. I passed her each day and, as is human nature, had to look at her. I do not know why we stare at such things, but few turn away. Gradually, the snow melted, rains came, and snow fell yet again. Each time I passed, there was less and less of her. Predators got to her first, and I was glad for their bounty in the time of frost when food can be scarce and not easily caught. Then decay claimed the rest. When the temperature soared into the near-eighties, I looked at her again. What remained was a skeleton bleached by the weather, like some desert scene in a film noir. Wildflowers had erupted through the soil around her. She stands as a reminder that life is transitory and fragile. I went home and hugged my husband and our animals, grateful for every day they are no more than bones and a memory.
A thing will haunt us for a little while, eventually to be replaced by something else. As your writing suggests, it is what we have taken from it that counts--the bones.
Thank you so much for sharing this, Lisa.
Leann
I Made My Boy Out of Poetry is a powerful literary vision of rare scope, beauty and emotional intensity composed of stories and poems that flow in and out of each other like the most lucid and articulate of dreams. These are portraits and studies of
