Prayer for the Fawns
  
 From a distance, I see a dark shape
 at the edge of the road.
 A dog, no doubt,
 hit by one of the trucks that takes this corner too fast,
 trucks that carve smooth ribbons of clay into the new gravel
 that the county lays each summer.
  
 Upon nearing, however, I see a smattering of white spots
 on a dew-slicked back.
 And legs, curled tightly as if womb sleeping,
 cocooned in liquid time.
  
 Even in death, there is something expectant here.
 As if these legs would unfurl at any moment, 
 their gleeful joints and sinews stretching,
 their bones so perfectly knit together 
 finding purpose. 
  
 Even in death, these ears fold perfectly
 into soft crescents at the crown.
 I long to run my hand over them 
 the way a mother smooths a child’s hair which spreads  
 like a silk fan across her pillow at night.
 And I long to see the timber—just yards away—
 reach its oaken arms to snatch this life 
 from death.
  
 This is my prayer for the fawns,
 for all that would begin.