By William Ogden Haynes

It is night, and a man is driving along a country road. The only 

illumination is a harvest moon and his headlights shining on 

the road ahead. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the bony crown of a 

buck shatters the windshield. The driver slams on the brakes, 

and is simultaneously punched by the deploying airbag as the car 

comes to a stop. Gems of safety glass on the dashboard and on his 

lap gimmer in the darkness. The driver unbuckles his belt and walks 

to the front of the car, where steam rises from the broken radiator. 

The headlights are still working, and they show the brown furry 

body struggling, back legs paralyzed, front legs scrambling to gain 

purchase on the asphalt. The driver drags the deer by the hind legs 

off the road and deep into the woods. He pulls the buck to a large 

tree lathered in moss, and sits with his back against it, his hand 

resting on the buck’s hind quarter. In thirty minutes, the deer finally 

calms and his breathing gradually slows, sighing with each exhalation, 

the blood on his fur, black under the moonlight. The man continues 

to pet him for a while, even after he dies.  

                                                             *   *   *

William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published several collections of poetry and many of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com