WALKING INTO TOWN ON A NOVEMBER MORNING
Jerry Dreesen

The grass is still green along
the drive that leads to the main road.
Everything else has turned shades of rust.
The ravine on the far side a tangle
of thin trees, hickory and ash.
Dried vines and Queen Anne’s Lace
partially hide a wire fence beaten down
and twisted as though it tried
but failed to keep something out or in.
In the distance, the sound of the deer slayers,
pok, pok of automatic rifles echo and I imagine
a deer stunned by the sudden burn,
unable to escape the fire inside its chest.
I remember, as a child, watching the film Bambi,
how sudden and personal death became, how I held
my mother’s hand and wouldn’t let go for hours.
Now the wind blusters, pushes.
I turn my back into it, feel it howl against me,
daring me to turn and face it head on.

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