The Deer

After the quiet snow comes the grinding grit throwing blind shrapnel at windshields. Night drives wind-horses, stampeding phantoms that enter my glassy eyes, then tug at the steering wheel as I edgily negotiate the corners of swerving shadows. Once, the hind hoof of a doe slapped at my startled face, the Chevy twitched and plowed on as its lights raked the earth. Through the rear mirror I thought for a moment I could see myself prone on the asphalt. The deer escaped, but it had slashed holes in the sludge, those tracks still drum and echo under nights iron curtain.