with my big Golden behind me,
busy with smells. It took a bit to reach
the wide line of pushed down
summer green, grasses. I followed
into the shade of a half circle
of Oaks and one Maple.
Leaning against the Maple's
trunk was a Deer’s heart; purpled,
ashy, bloodless. Left as a treat
for the dogs or perhaps,
some tradition
I had never heard of. The rest
of the deer was gone.
My dog dragged his nose
over the grassy, bloodied center,
reading the story of the deer dying
and then dead mixed with
the hunter and strange dogs.
He didn't see the heart
and then he did. One sniff
and he backed away.
On sad days, it comes to me
when walking, ignited
by a pattern of shadows fluttering
under trees. I see the deer's heart
resting against the Maple,
bigger than I thought and I am
surprised again, thinking, more like
than unlike, mine and how this thing,
freed from a bony cage still
means life.
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