Driving to work today, a deer ran out
across the road, didn't stop, just bounded
on its hooves all the way
over both halves of the highway.
Cars slowed down, hearts jumping into throats,
and it sprinted off up a hill,
narrowly avoiding death
like nothing had happened at all.
I couldn't stop picturing the crash
that might have been, dead deer plastered
across the asphalt.
I took a walk in the dark the other night,
mindlessly walking in big looping circles,
stepping on rocks and twigs.
I stepped on a hunk of something a few times.
It was hard but still had a little give,
and I figured it must be a piece of trash
or a mushroom. When I turned on my flashlight
and the brightness cut through the night,
it was a dead bird, fat and rotting,
wings bent at crooked angles on the grass.
There is death all around us, realized or waiting.
It's so normal that we barely think of it,
so sacred that we cannot set our feet upon it
without begging for forgivenesses.
There is death all around us, and it is alive,
more alive than we'll ever be.
YOU ARE READING
These People and I
PoetryThis year for National Poetry Writing Month, I want to challenge myself by mostly writing about people I wouldn't normally write about. This could include people from my past, present, or even future. I'll be adding a new poem by midnight each day i...
