I was walking with Artemis a few weeks ago. Biscuit, now too lame to walk, stayed home. We were in the woods at the top of a long steep hill, away from people and other dogs--far from the road and off the trail, and alone. There was a clearing to the left and we happened on this quiet memorial for Deer. There was a shriveled apple wedged onto the lip of the vase.
I am struck by the simplicity of this marker--and how it so powerfully defied our solitude. We were among the millions of untold tales of these quiet old woods. I didn't need to know this particular tale of Deer--but I was grateful to be made aware that I was sharing this space with many.
Artie and I paused to pay homage. She was curious about the apple but indifferent about its significance. Clearly, she was quite at ease there. I suddenly felt a bit awkward. I felt compelled to pay tribute, but beyond that I was at a loss. I was oddly embarrassed by my own presence.
We eventually continued on with our walk that day but even now--several weeks later--I think about this spot. I carry it with me, maybe as a lucky stone.
Rest in peace, Deer.
I like to believe in that idea.
Live in peace, Deer.
I like to hope that they do.
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From Gary Snyder:
ReplyDeletethis poem is for deer
I dance on all the mountains
On five mountains, I have a dancing place
When they shoot at me I run
To my five mountains"
Missed a last shot
At the Buck, in twilight
So we came back sliding
On dry needles through cold pines.
Scared out a cottontail
Whipped up the winchester
Shot off its head.
The white body rolls and twitches
In the dark ravine
As we run down the hill to the car.
deer foot down scree
Picasso's fawn, Issa's fawn,
Deer on the autumn mountain
Howling like a wise man
Stiff springy jumps down the snowfields
Head held back, forefeet out,
Balls tight in a tough hair sack
Keeping the human soul from care
on the autumn mountain
Standing in late sun, ear-flick
Tail-flick, gold mist of flies
Whirling from nostril to eyes.
Home by night
drunken eye
Still picks out Taurus
Low, and growing high:
four-point buck
Dancing in the headlights
on the lonely road
A mile past the mill-pond,
With the car stopped, shot
That wild silly blinded creature down.
Pull out the hot guts
with hard bare hands
While night-frost chills the tongue
and eye
The cold horn-bones.
The hunter's belt
just below the sky
Warm blood in the car trunk.
Deer-smell,
the limp tongue.
Deer don't want to die for me.
I'll drink sea-water
Sleep on beach pebbles in the rain
Until the deer come down to die
in pity for my pain.
thank you ginny...i love this.
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