The pelt is all that’s left. Deer hide
lies flat on the highway. No head,
no legs, just a largish furred patch.
I couldn’t stop to touch the gray
that melded into worn macadam.
Perhaps in the middle of the night,
when trafficking must turn sparse,
here comes a fawn old enough that
it has shed some spots, and it sniffs.
The power of God comes barreling
down the road, all big bright lights.
Cover image by JOHN TOWNER
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