This is last week’s Shadorma prompt, hosted by MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. The poem, “Travelling Through The Dark” by William E. Stafford.
There are things,
Best not explained and
Thought of once,
Some times rise up in memory
Some nights lost.
Perhaps the —
Road was offending —
Nature not —
Space required for her to thrive,
But I wish,
Someone out there could —
Hear nature’s —
Then we wouldn’t harm her deer,
We might have —
More respect for such creatures whom —
Know not where —
They tread is —
Surely the end, too dangerous,
So they die.
And like that —
Deer killed by the road,
Womb full of —
Baby who —
Won’t ever be born; Nature —
Cries for loss.
If the corpse,
Lies there on the road,
Not paying —
Attention; he’ll hit it and —
Though the deers,
Death is so tragic,
So is the —
Loss of a —
Human life more; though we think,
Some don’t think.
Perhaps a —
Sign some flashing lights,
Saying, “Deer —
Crossing Please —
Be aware,” but some don’t read.
The corpse goes —
A gaping —
Grave to eternity,
Mother and —
Fawn are gone.
No vigil, no prayer, no thought,
“Travelling Through the Dark” By William E. Stanford
Traveling through the dark 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.
.By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly..
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.