The Ancestor of Tomorrow's Posthuman Herds

A widow neighbor tells the story
Of the morning she woke up to find
A magnificent multipoint buck
Stretched out on his side in her fountain.
"So strange! I couldn't believe my eyes."
Someone listening at the table
Full of jovial people chatting,
Eating Indian and drinking wine,
Expects another funny story.
"What was he doing? Taking a bath?"
"No. He was dead. Someone had shot him.
I found his trail of blood on my fence.
He used to come down with his women
By my stretch of the river to browse.
He must have been trying to escape.
He knew he would be safe on my land.
He got over the fence, but he died."
She shrugs. "The hunter knew not to come
To my door to ask for him. Poacher."
There's murmuring, and then talk moves on,
But the pathos of the tale lingers,
Not because a deer was shot and ran
But because of the implication
That he was attempting some magic,
Some tragic effort to make it home,
As if home could heal him. But he failed
A little short of his goal and fell.
This resonates with our fairytales
And we all feel it. But talk moves on.