Traveling through the dark I found a deer

    dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.

    It is usually best to roll them into the canyon¹：

    that road is narrow； to swerve² might make more dead.

    By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car

    and stood by the heap， a doe， a recent killing³；

    she had stiffened⁴ already， almost cold.

    I dragged her off； she was large in the belly⁵.

    My fingers touching⁶ her side brought me the reason

    her side was warm； her fawn⁷ lay there waiting，

    alive， still， never to be born.

    Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

    The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights；

    under the hood⁸ purred the steady engine.

    I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red；

    around our group I could hear the wilderness⁹ listen.

    I thought hard for us all——my only swerving¹⁰，

    then pushed her over the edge into the river.