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By Paul Jaskunas

Bound to Happen

Nearly every soul I know has hit a deer
on this wooded road.
A road so dark you cannot see
even a glimmer of light
in the wall of trees
standing tall along the way.

One day our turn will come.
A deer will slide from the woods
to the asphalt like a shadow,
so quickly that you, my dear,
will see too late.

Would it not be agreeable,
to slow our fast car down,
nose our fender into the grasses
growing lush along the roadside,
where we could curl beside each other
and watch the moon rise
and the deer come and go,
their hearts still beating
in their precious chests.

We could talk fondly till dawn
of old times, old hurts and scars.
We could forgive each other
everything and pretend
we have not neared the end,
but have only stopped midway
on our journey across a great
green continent. Oh, yes,

it would be agreeable,
but you do not stop.
You drive on.
Toward home, you say,
we must return home.
You even claim
to know the way.

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