We say we will follow the deer tracks in the snow later in the day but we never do. They all lead to the same place, back to the denuded arbor vitae. We could trace them to our windows and look in as though strangers seeing it all for the first time. The empty bed. The daffodils blooming in the jar. Dust on the picture frame. We would not see the hard line or hear the clock ticking down time. We would not know that to fear death is the worst fear of all because there is no escaping it. There is no wishing it away. The deer always come back to that which feeds them.






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