Roadkiller (thanks for the challenge, Cork)

A pal and I once drove from here,
clear across to over there,
sea-to-shining-sea, as it were.
This was in the seventies;
a long time ago from the Aught-Single-Digits thence.

To this day we both recall
the carnage of the Poconos:
ten dead deer littering the highway,
in a space of but a few miles.

In the darkness of November Saturday,
returning from a mild domestic errand,
peaceful in the warm evening air,
enjoying the pastoral environs I've chosen
intentionally, to enjoy these many years
part of the bucolic scenery leapt alive
across the picturesque wall and
into the two-lane-blacktop inches
from my unstoppable bumper.
The blur became a faun,
the faun became roadkill,
and I a roadkiller.

And it's still the same
woods-cradled two lane blacktop
and my bumper's trash
but the car will soldier on
(and my insurance company will pay
all but $100 to get it fixed).
But the little deer is dead,
and I'm not quite as comfortable as I was.
Which might be good.
I don't really know.

Copyright D. Quarrell 2009