By Dave Donovan
It is a way of marking the season, like the squalls of locust leaves and the bend of wild beach grass. Every fall a deer—its belly a black, stretched crater—hangs from the thick arm of my neighbor’s giant oak.
This doe was in the wrong place during a two-week frenzy of false fawn bleating and silent camouflage and death.
Out with the dog under the quiet frost of night, I sometimes hear the creak of rope, a straining under the pendulum of bound hooves. She’s twisting, kicking to free herself, to search for her sacred entrails and her life.
great piece. Has more power than its few words suggest.
Very powerful imagery evoked in this – well done:)
A splendid story; wonderful imagery; great job.
Vibrant imagery. So much tension. Nice writing!
This is poetry masquerading as prose. Lol. Such beauty.