Deerfly

Deer flourish in this wildwood. I have stared
while dozens dapple through the Escher trees
in quick battalions. Yesterday, a pair
stood knee high in the grasses of the lea
between the wood and road. Winter’s dull teeth
had gnawed their hides, and scraped fat from their bones–
but not to death. Their dying, when it comes,
will be halogen, green-eyed on the hook
of headlights. Perhaps mine. I threw a stone
and shouted, but they didn’t even look.