Pulling over on the side of the road,
aiming at the deer,
clicking and clicking until I get
the best photos of the speckled sunlight
dancing down the fawn's spotted coat.
A minute and a half into taking these pictures,
while stealing this fleeting moment of loveliness,
I notice the buzzing flies five feet to my left.
The dead possum — roadkill —
makes me sick to my stomach.
I'm mad at myself for focusing on the distant beauty,
for overlooking the nearby sorrow.
