Two Poems

Deer
The deer jumped in front of the car in front
of ours. Out of nowhere, leaping like a ballerina
across the road. The thud, thick and heavy, and then
a strange cry, pierced the car windows, filling
the closed space like liquid. Traffic came to
a dead halt. The animal had been thrown fifteen
feet and lay still, its head at an unnatural angle,
a thin ribbon of blood trickling out onto the black
tarmac. The front of the car was crushed. We
wandered. We milled around. We circled. Waiting.
Like strangers at a funeral. Small talk. Avoidance.
Someone pointed. We turned like weather vanes.
On the rise from where the deer had leaped, immobile,
a massive stag, four antlers, dirt brown fur, deep eyes
staring, as if not seeing us, the cars, nothing but her.

Coyote
The coyote is so skinny its bones jump out
like rails with each breath. What are you doing
here I think; how can you be so desperate to
come to man-town, where you will be shot down
or roped and quartered in a city minute? I remember.
How did they know I was coyote? I wore the same
clothes. My hair, my smile, my eyes didn’t give me
away. I was just like them I imagined. They
surrounded me like hunters, narrowing the circle
into a noose. Then it was done. Beaten down with
fists; kicked and stomped; good as dead; no longer
interesting. Coyote, I was as skinny as you, hungry
and needy. Our kind is never welcome. We’re coyote.