The Knowledge of Cars
Oct 17 2014


The rambling road curves,
in inexplicable double-backs
decreasing-radius turns.
Shoulders up against the woods,
its dark thatch of trees
even high beams
barely penetrate.
Either the path of least resistance
or for no reason at all,
as if a drunk surveyor, staggering back
had mapped his footsteps home.

Where after dark

I must be vigilant for deer.

For that vague silhouette,

a deeper murk, against the muzzy murk

of night.

For the glint
of alert brown eyes
lurking on the gravel verge.
Skittish animals of prey, spooked by light,

who dart out

in a blink of blur.

But more and more, they seem to wait,

as if inured

to passing cars.

As if only the quickest learners survived,
while the rest
were ruthlessly culled.
As if mothers schooled their young,
somehow passing on
the knowledge of cars.

Not instinct, but culture
in a dumb ungulate
we thought had none.
Who could just as well be city deer,
street-smart sophisticates
poking fun
at their rustic cousins
who know only to run.

Jaded deer
of a certain age

grazing at the side of the road,

warily look up

as I approach.
Who have learned to live

with passing cars,
the blinding light, ungodly noise
that breaks the peaceful night.

The last thing I wanted to write was another deer poem. At least this one is rescued by its rather original premise.

I have to wonder whether my observation -- about more patient deer -- is legitimate, or simply a case of confirmation bias: that the few times the deer unexpectedly stay put are far more memorable than the more numerous times they behave as expected. But if it is legitimate, this might be an example of natural selection in a localized population, weeding out the more skittish deer while favouring the more patient survivors, who are older and wiser and more likely to reproduce. Or even, as the poem suggests, an example of a collective learning curve: a transmission of knowledge, which is closer to culture than instinct; that is, a skill that's passed on through learning, not genes. I find this explanation -- culture -- the more fascinating and appealing possibility. Which is why I chose to highlight it in the title.

But still, the darn things have an uncanny knack of waiting until you're right on top of them before they dart out to late and too fast to avoid. The road isn't nearly as bad as the poem depicts; but it is hard to navigate while keeping a sharp lookout for deer. Especially since not only is it unlighted, it also has no reflective markers or centre line. Add in a little fog and a moonless night, and deer/car collisions are almost inevitable.

This is the first time ever I've used the word "muzzy". I was a little dubious about it for 2 reasons:  first, it came from the thesaurus, which I always feel is cheating; and second, it's not a word I'd ever use in "real" life -- not the big impressive word I try to avoid, but nevertheless uncommon. On the other hand, it seems to convey exactly what I wanted. And the context makes the meaning perfectly clear (that is, "perfectly unclear"!) Not to mention the alliteration for which I'm always a sucker. I also like the repetition of "murk", even though I usually avoid redundancy:  I think this doubling-down reinforces the impression of the layering and deepening of unrelieved darkness.

The 2nd stanza -- and into the 3rd -- flirts dangerously with cleverness. In my defence, the elaborate rhyme -- murk, alert, lurk(ing), verge, blur, inured, and learn(ers) -- was kind of accidental. But I think it's just enough to be fun without showing off. And I like the way rhyme like this pulls everything together, cinches it tight.