On Killing A Deer As An Old Man

Far away from the white boat, and the sun, and the shade of the orange crates, I came to the head of a trail.

I saw licks of blood in the dirt. Shouldering a rifle, I trod on.

I found the deer laying with its cheek against the soil, chest rising and falling slowly.

Far from where my grandfather showed me seagull necks in his red hands, twisted like bottle tops, I came to the final deer.

How deep a trough the intervening years have formed between a broken seagull and a bleeding deer.