Thursday, April 30, 2020


Dawn, and dozens of mule deer
Line the long Kolob Terrace,
Some dashing across the road—
What else is new in this world?

Inescapably pointless
Questions accidentally
Draw chalk around the absurd.
Whole herds of deer like dark clouds,

Like starling murmurations
That startle, doubly startled
As they whirl, to discover
They’re not birds and they can’t fly.

That’s why the look in their eyes.
Deer believe they are angels.
I believe deer are angels,
Reduced to wingless dimwits

By a furious human
Idea of divinity.
Murder all their predators.
Provide their ecosystem.

Give them cause to multiply.
Knowing how they love twilight,
Keep them halfway in the dark,
Hunting them only sometimes,

Blinding them with white visions
That end in death or trembling.
Never make them understand
How or why the wolves moved on.

Fawn stops dead in front of me,
Shadow on the empty road,
Mother and the herd all gone.
Fly, I beg it. Use your soul.

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