"Forever wild"
they muttered
under their breaths,
as the primeval pines
crowded the space
where a deer dies.
County men with steel
pitchforks and plastic bags,
working under a shambling
sky of rain clouds falling,
in the soft distance of lights:
five breaths a minute, crashing
into the hard mildness of a deer.
(c) December 2018
George is an independent essayist, poet, and jouranlist. He lives and works in Rochester NY.
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