Traveling through the dark I found a deerdead 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 carand 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.
