A47 6:33 AM
a fallow deer, bleeding
on the roadside
waiting for death or
rescue.
I wonder what it thinks
as I approach.
Does in fear me? Blame
me for hurting it
despite my arrival a
moment ago?
Or does it think I am
its redeemer,
come to release it to
some foreign land.
Does she she have a
concept of death?
She struggles to rise,
the movement
shaking dew from the
encircling shrubs
and drops of dew
glisten on the perfect velvet of her coat
holding worlds in
miniature, fingers of dawn
turning the Moon's
shroud pink.
Her eyelids flutter and
the bright spark in her pupil fades.
The eyes turn dull.
A single tear runs down
a suddenly cold cheek
and I turn away.
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