TRAVELING THROUGH THE DARK
Traveling through
the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge
of the Wilson River road.
It is usually
best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is
narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the
tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the
heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had
stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her
off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers
touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there
waiting,
alive, still,
never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed
ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood
purred the steady engine.
I stood in the
glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wildnerness listen.
I thought hard
for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her
over the edge into the river.
—William Stafford
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