At Fault

The shot was clean, right through the eye,
the officer said.
And grabbing the hind legs,
gesturing like an Olympic disc thrower,
he picked up the fawn, turned, and flung it
into the woods’ overgrown weeds.

I watched the undignified tossing
of a life, ended randomly,
by a passerby’s car.
Its spotted coat still
shivered in the unforgiving light.

Usually, the deer come out at dusk.
I should have seen it coming.

The mother, not me, should have been there.
She should have
cradled the bloody head.
She should have
taught her son to leap higher.
She should have
known how to divine the crossing.