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.