Yesterday I heard the deer hunters deep in the forest, a shot fired, a thud, the accompanying echo of victory. I screamed obscenities that echoed back at me. Last night in a dream they came for me, chasing me through the thick forest, I could hear their rebel yells close behind, my bare feet bled and my legs gave way and I fell. They caught up with me and when I begged for my life they laughed, drew back their bow and arrow and pierced my heart, buried me beneath skins of their dead animals.
A few weeks ago while hiking through the woods we came across a dead fawn. It’s mother had bedded down about ten feet away. By the condition of the carcass we guessed it had been there for a couple of days. Thick blood had caked in the baby deer’s eyes from the gunshot wound. We broke some branches and shooed the doe away, buried her baby under a tall pine, threw straw over the resting place and stuck a wide stick into the earth, wound it with a garland of vines.
This morning I heard the thud of a bird striking the window. A bloody mark left on the pane took the shape of a tear drop. There is still a stain on the grass where it fell. It’s grave is in the shade of hydrangea bushes.
The garden is bursting with life, the roses in full bloom, petals of peonies open wide to the sun, fruit spurs shoot forth from the apple tree. The earth is in the throes of birth and everything seems possible. I try not to think about death. The sweet doe beside her dead fawn, does she still grieve? The woman down the road complains that the deer frayed her young trees and raided her vegetable garden. Is life as insignificant as the tiny sparrow?