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She begins to slow the car
as the highway approaches
the descent into the river valley.
“Usually there are deer
along this stretch of road.”
In the pale wash of headlights,
as if invoked from the darkness,
two mule deer in slow motion
step up the road embankment,
intent on crossing.
We follow our lights,
our pathways;
deer follow theirs.
If we are lucky,
our ways do not merge.
She shows the patience
of one at home
with animals of the night,
slows the vehicle to a crawl.
The deer stop, heads up,
like spot-lit silhouettes,
cardboard cut-outs.
They wait for us to creep past.
“I see them here often,”
is all she says,
as we slowly make our way
across the river, up the slope
to the other side
without further incident.
She loves these animals,
would never want them hurt.
She does not begrudge the time
it takes to share this space,
the night,
and all those
who move through it.
© by Glen Sorestad.
Used with the author’s permission.
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Glen Sorestad is celebrating his 50th year of writing poems and claims he still enjoys doing so. His wife Sonia is his first and most enthusiastic reader and editor. They live in Saskatoon, the Paris of the prairies. Learn more about Glen here.
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Sarah Russell:
Lovely.
Posted 11/04/2018 08:55 AM
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KevinArnold:
"If we are lucky/our ways do not move. Fine.
Posted 11/04/2018 07:00 AM
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cork:
When I share with the deer, I put on my emergency flashers to warn other drivers of their presence. Patience is the key.
Posted 11/04/2018 06:37 AM
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Larry Schug:
Ah, a daily occurrence in our neck of the woods, too. For me, the lesson of this poem is that we "share this space, the night and those who move through it." Good stuff, as usual, Glen.
Posted 11/04/2018 06:28 AM
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