my father loved the deer of colorado’s western slope.
he drove carefully at dusk along the rural two-lane blacktop, counting those he saw— doe, buck and fawn—one hundred seventy-five one evening, by his count.
he’d fought in korea and vietnam, killed strangers and had his young friends
die beside him.
he loved the deer for being alive and free,
allowing him to tend to them by driving carefully at dusk.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)