David Milley
Deer Season

Eating kippers from a can, he leans on his truck. He forks fish
into his mouth, a twig from today's cutting fashioned for the task.
He eats big-mouthed, to keep the fish smell from his beard.
Standing by his silent saw, he'll devour crackers for dessert.

From the side of his eye, he sees a deer, then two, step with care
from the wood near the spot he's cleared. He lays the fish and fork,
silently, down onto his truck. More shadows move, at the edge
of his eye. Knowing what the shadows mean, he lifts his saw.

Still not looking up, he sees orange jackets now, and the glint
that gives away the gun. He crouches, cradles his saw. He waits
until the deer move into his clearing, until they're halfway across.
He yanks the cord. The saw screams and growls, carving up the air.

Everywhere, deer leap for the far wood. Hurdling stumps,
they miss him by inches. "Run! Hide!" he whispers under the roar.
The deer become shadows again. The gunners wave in disgust.
He cuts off his saw and grins. He goes back to his kippers again.

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