The carcass of a doe
has lain for weeks
in a graveled ditch
on Twin Lakes road.
The lower half is gone
but the upper torso
rears back its head
in rigored anguish.
Forelegs seem to paw
in a perpetual flail
to reach the brush,
leave the road behind.
Leathern lips open,
the tongue lolls out.
Week by putrid week
the pelt slowly molts
as seasons also change,
the decay of autumn
freezing into hiatus
well before the solstice.
Nothing drags the corpse.
Coyotes deign not dine.
Ravens in the forked tree
look on but fain not feed.
How in scavenged hell
these remains remain
defies a desert precedent.
Or perhaps it does not.
Perhaps the coyote,
the raven, the bobcat
know what we do not.
Perhaps the dying doe
was already good as dead
before the weaving pickup
rent its hindquarters
from a poisoned spine.
Perhaps she stared
those headlights down
to appease a rational urge,
one final act of suffrage.
Yes, even carrion beasts
forego a fatal meal—
and brook no metaphor
of vernal resurrection,
of summer consummation.
They merely observe
and pass no judgment
on such fallen winters.