Crossing the snowy field,
I came upon a dead deer,
a doe lying on her side.
frozen life-like.

Breeze fluttered her
smooth brown fur,
ruffled her stomach’s
red-stained white.

Shot by a hunter,
no doubt, but not
hauled home strapped
atop a car

but left to die in a winter
wasteland, eyes popped open,
a quizzical expression
unquelled by death,

a desolation question –“Why?”
The foxes hadn’t come by.
Nor had the turkey vultures.
And not a sign of a wolverine.

No meal for the hungry and,
with heavier clouds moving in,
the next snowfall and the one
after that would surely bury her.

A body not worth feasting on
or bragging about –
for what purpose
would she last until spring?