The deer runs in front of my truck so suddenly
that braking only prolongs the
under my tires.
I stop in the middle of the two-lane road,
four school buses stacked behind me now
with kids’ faces pressed to the windows
to study their teacher sobbing over a dead deer.
Two bus drivers drag the carcass into the grass
as a sheriff arrives to direct traffic.
He tells me someone heard about the strike on the scanner,
is on the way to haul the deer to the processor.
its death isn’t entirely meaningless.
Could be one of those kids’ families that will eat venison all winter.