traveling through the dark
Traveling through the Dark
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.
-William Stafford
Poetry is not all sunshine and daisies, nor all clouds and neatness. No, it is messy and hard, reflecting the choices we make in our lives, sometimes hot and chaotic and hurried and unrelenting. We avoid death, we sanitize it, we avert our eyes. Not so the poet. Not so, ultimately, any of us.
[image from here]
