In The Dead of Night
Jan 17 2015


It's too cold for deer.
So I find myself complacent
on the winter road.
After the rut
when lust-mad bucks are rampant.
And before the thaw
when hunger drives them out.

I have lost the discipline
of the eye tuned
to peripheral vision,
the habit of vigilance
for movement, and shape.
The telling reflection
in big brown eyes.

You'd think they had a death-wish
how they blunder out
into the open road,
transfixed by light
confused by noise.

Unpredictable deer,
who hesitate, then launch
on tightly-sprung legs
just when you think you're clear.
Who skittishly tongue
coarse clumps of salt,
edging out
bit-by-bit.

But now, they must be hunkered down

in trackless forest.
Pawing at crusted snow
for frozen grass.
Or rearing up
to strip the low-hanging branch;
for tender buds,
for the stone soup
of poorly nourishing needles.

Or in huddled herds,

a cloud of steamy breath

hovering.

Conserving precious heat
in this mortal season
that culls
the old, and the weak.

The wolves are out.
Black crows
circle like vultures.
While foxes discretely scout,
darting in
to poach the leavings.
And on the winter road
how could he miss the car,
passing
in a rush of wind, and light, and sound?

The unlikely confluence
of time and space
instinct, and intent
when the two of us met
in the dead of night
intersecting exactly.
Because so much depends on chance;

contingencies of ice, calculation of traction,

the vagaries of light

reaction time.

But the buck
emerged alive.
And the drive was uneventful.

I've written this poem numerous times before. Which means I'm plagiarizing myself, poaching the best parts. But there is something to be said for coming at the same thing time after time: because even though I've done it before doesn't mean I can't do better ...and perhaps I'll finally get it right. It can also be a nice gauge of my progress as a writer: does the new version work better; or have I already written my best stuff (and might as well give up!)?

There is also something compelling that draws me to this theme. There is the intersection of man and nature, our thoughtless intrusion on the wild world. And there is this idea of contingency and chance: that our notions of free will and agency are just reassuring conceits; that we control a lot less in life than we comfort ourselves believing.

It's not a trick ending; but there's definitely some misdirection here. I like the way the poem builds up, creating this sense of inevitability (from death-wish to mortal season to vulturous crows, to intersecting exactly). It even starts with the title, which I intentionally chose for the ominous Dead. And then, in a few brief lines, nothing happens. There is this "could have" fork in the road that might very well have spawned a parallel universe of terrible outcomes. But life went on, as if by inertia. You'd think there should be some sort of gratitude for this, some sense of perspective. But, of course, there isn't: no one goes through life overwhelmed by appreciation for the infinity of bad things that didn't happen! (Although pessimists -- like me -- come close!)

For me, the sine qua non of writing is the sentence. Not the story, arc, character, or dialogue. Which is why I could never write a short story or novel, and why the instant gratification of poetry so appeals. There are a few good lines here, which make me think it's a good poem. (Which, by the way, isn't true. You can string together beautiful sentences and end up with a lousy poem. While simple conversational language that, taken on its own, would seem artless, can come together to make an incredibly powerful piece. In fact, what really makes it sing is just this:  that something so complex and ineffable can be conveyed with such simple language.) I think my favourite here is this: After the rut/ when lust-mad bucks are rampant. Another is something I didn't write: that is, deer in the headlights. Transfixed by light does much the same; but at least avoids the obvious cliché!