North of Verona, Canoe Lake Road

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The sharp bleat of the fawn

when Don pushes it—

trying to get it to leave

the road. The doe

in the woods

close by, eyes on

the fawn, Don, the car.  

 

The doe doesn’t know 

what to do, I can see

it must hurt her

to hear the fawn cry

so loud, so scared, the baby

just born and too young

to know the road 

is a bad place to be.

 

When he gets back

into the car, Don 

drives away 

so slow, with 

such care, looking

back. He has fawn fur

on his hands.

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