Charles Bigelow, 04/12

IN A FOG

Muffled
in layers of fog,
graceful hooves
carry three deer
across the snow-blanketed hills.

Born of the wind,
ghostlike grace,
the energy and purity
of motion
dissects the stillness

before the rumble of
lumbering vehicles
and screeching brakes
precede a cacophony
of collisions.

The mist floating by
reveals the somber
contradiction
of mangled metal
and torn flesh and fur.

Slipping slowly by,
morbidly drawn
to the disaster –
I struggle to make
sense of seconds

Promote. Poetry.
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