Helpless

Walking the path along the Colorado River in Glenwood Canyon,

I notice a dark shape on the path ahead, a bird pecking at it,

I hope it’s a log.

As I get closer the magpie flies off, the deer pushes its front legs,

a young buck, antlers with two points each, lying on his side,

back legs still.

I whisper to him, pull on his antlers to lift him, his heavy head falling back,

I guess he has jumped or fallen from the highway fifty feet above,

broken his back.

Kneeling next to him, I’ve never been so close to a deer, I pray,

then call 911, the woman is kind to me through my tears,

she will send someone.

I linger, he breathes, kicks, closes his eyes, I shoo the magpie again.

Feeling I’m not wanted, I move away - we are both mammals,

but so far apart.

I am of the species who put a four-lane highway through his canyon,

is responsible for the dwindling flow of Grizzly Creek, demise of

billions-year-old atmosphere.

His chest heaves, I see his eyes rolling white, downy fur of each ear -

front legs kicking, he has formed a perfect circle in the dirt,

spinning and spinning.