Dry
The young doe so alive
Brought down by one shot
Way back, several years ago
The hunters could not find her
Venison they desired to eat
Then her carcass lay at the edge
Of an open field next to the deep woods
Slowly
Vultures, crows, bobcats, ants
Ate their fill
Now only dry bones left
Still baked by the sun
My writing has hit a dry spell
Like those dry bones
Baked by the spring sun
All dried up, turned white by the sun
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