The Deer
He lay there -- supine in his splendor.
No wonder the wonder in his dead eyes,
shining as black nuggets of perfection
just at the intersection of my drive and the street.
He lay there, just a few feet from where
the rubber meets the road,
the load of breathing too harsh.
The long gash on his neck still oozing
the last signs of life, though they be brash,
for life no longer lingered in he.
The buzzards, maybe forty in all,
indulged my intrusion, guardedly, but polite.
I touched him one last time, my last rite,
for the spirit mother who
set a free spirit’s soul free.
I returned in a week.
He was gone, I did not seek or wonder where.
Such is life. We live and we die. Why !
Only time will tell, only time.
In a far corner of the same field,
days later, peeled and bleached white,
three leg bones, a rib cage and a skull
I find to bring full closure.
To balance the scale of trash or treasure
in the measure of a life.
Thank you Cyndi !
Copyright © Charles Henderson | Year Posted 2012
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