Roadkill Poetry

Each morning, before sunrise, I drive the nine miles into Manchester for work.  These are country roads, and I meet few other cars at 5:30.  It is not other drivers I'm concerned about these days; it is the sudden appearance of deer.

Though I see deer all year in the Big Woods, they are more visible in late fall when the fields have been harvested, fields full of dropped seed corn.  The deer also make their way into the our yards for the grass now that other tender eats have suffered a freeze.


I see a lot of deer.  Last January, I counted 20 head in the field outside my front windows, and for much of the month, they would cross that field heading up or down river.  One afternoon, just after our first snowfall, I took the dogs out for a walk and four deer cut across the driveway, not 20 feet from us.  Two days ago, I had my closest call while driving to work.  I saw the deer dart out of the ditch ahead of me and had just enough time to hit the brakes before the second deer bolted out, missing my car by just a couple feet.

I see plenty of roadkill all year in my drive to and from work.  Raccoons, opossums, farm cats, hawks, Canadian geese.  A large red-tail fox was hit earlier in September and I can still see the traces of red fur on the side of the road.

Roadkill is just another part of living in the Big Woods, and though I hate seeing a fox, or hawk, or barn cat (and please don't let me see someone's dog), but the sight of a struck deer is particularly unsettling.

Deer are large, with a weight between 110-300 pounds.  Hitting one with your car at 55mph will not only kill the deer, but damage your vehicle.  This time of year, I encounter one or two dead deer on my route to Manchester every week.  I hate seeing these beautiful creatures splayed along the roadside; there is always a twinge of sadness.

Last November, a doe was struck in an area I often see them crossing.  On one side of the road is woodland, the other side is a large cornfield.  Her positioning in death was oddly elegant, especially in the cold, autumn sun.  I could not let her beauty, even in death, go without words.