Deer Crossing Old Mountain Road
Christopher Martin

From Little Kennesaw’s flanks, night settled
upon woods, boulders cradled in darkness,
she steps to the roadside, stands illumined
by headlights, lowers her head, cowers there,
crosses, fearing me, accepting my presence.
I press the brakes, watch her black eyes flicker
in lights lit by battery. She lingers, tall
gold grasses, weeds, surrounding still hooves
at the edge of a mini-mansion yard.
She does not know what the armies bled for,
that armies converged upon this mountain
at all. Now she knows nothing but danger
of light not overcome by the darkness—
light shining from my car, light from streetlamps.
She returns where the light does not endure.

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