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.
The weight of its body, the once-graceful form now stilled,
came to rest against my bumper, a final collision.
I stepped out into the night, my headlights cutting through the gloom,
illuminating the stark tableau of the life-giving way to death.
This creature, once fleet and free, now lay motionless,
its eyes unseeing, its spirit departed. I paused,
my hand hovering, unsure of the proper ritual,
the respect owed to this fallen woodland denizen.
Should I gently lift it and carry it to the ravine’s edge?
Or was the kindest act to simply push it over,
to let it tumble down into the darkness,
returning to the earth from whence it came?
The decision weighed heavy, a burden of conscience.
For in this moment, I was caretaker, arbiter of its fate,
charged with the solemn duty of sending it on its final journey,
of honouring the delicate, ephemeral nature of life itself.
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