The back porch is an elephant graveyard
for deer. They come to die.
The bones are white with age,
their horns making good chew-toys for my dog.
The femurs are cracked, the spine shattered

by the cougar who used to live behind the woods.
My father hangs the skulls on a tree.
They wait. Not forboding. Not warning.
Just lonely.

In the night I can feel the spirits
of the dead deer, returning to this place, this house.
They stand and stare. Their bones are scattered and
they seem angry. Or sad. But

all it takes is a movement
the flickershine of light on the glass or a muffled footfall
and
they spring away, running over the roads
to recreate their deaths in silver moonlight and unsuspecting drivers.