We all stopped, early on that
Friday morning
To let the family of deer through,
A small heard, no more then twenty
In both lanes, we
Sat still on the road,
With no protest to get back
To our crowded day,
As the mother and her two yearlings,
Made, in the hesitant and then
Hurried gait of uncertainty,
Their shy way across the road.
Surely they had seen, as I had, the bodies
Of their kin snagged and twisted
On the banks of this impassible river.

I wonder if she felt, as I did,
A small victory as
Her meager dynasty
Slipped into the caves of
The blackberry thickets.
And we, strangely satisfied,
Let the current push us on.