The deer’s skin was mostly intact.
He tried to haul the body into his truck.
His dog barked; his back ached. The bark echoed.
The body slumped back to the road’s shoulder.
He knew what he’d do—saw at the deer’s neck.
With the saw from his tool box, he cut through skin.
He went at it—vein, fascia, adipose, bone.
He was sweat and resentment. His hands turned red.
He worked slowly, neatly.
He wiped up blood with a napkin, then a fistful of rags.
He figured the deer’s brown eyes had fooled a hundred hunters.
The deer’s head, apart from the body, was something.
He let out a low whistle. Only 5 am.
He’d drive east, arrive before his wife.
He looked at his watch again.
He forgot what it had said before.
The head wobbled in the truck’s bed.
The man rejoined the highway traffic.
He knew he’d leave it for his wife to see.
He looked at his watch. Still time.
He’d leave it on the library steps—
Blood on the stairs, soft ears, the eyes—
Thirty minutes before she arrived to work.