Detweiller Run

This is the third or fourth draft of this poem. I will revise it more.

"Detweiller Run"

I left the cold stream's bank,

stepped over a knot

on a hoary fallen log

resting with the needles and leaves,

the grounded bed of lives

cycling below hawk cries

and in the scouring mouths

of detritus-hungry insects.

The doe jumped down the hill.

Her heart leapt in her throat.

She collapsed, spraying

a leaf litter cataract,

her chest's impact, her legs

flailing at first. Then, like the trees

leaving a meal with the needles

for a grave I have marked.