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.
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