The usual. Cows’ mouths suckle grass,
while a horse necks hay. From a distance,
they are so still, like a portrait of themselves.
Then, in the foggy dawn,
a fallen stop sign crumpled on the road
is a pool of blood.
Fresh tread marks
and the hulk of an elk barely
dragged off Highway 101
seem a mystery solved
on the face of the doe
tapping unflappably across the road
with a look I interpret as disdain,
or possibly resignation,
but surely it is not too much of a stretch to say disregard
for those of us speeding by
her mate’s gravesite.