In memory of a young buck

No photo today. What I saw shouldn't be photographed. I was driving when I saw Biscuit standing in a blue plaid shirt with his hands jammed in his pockets. He stood over the lifeless body of a young buck killed on the road last night. Its neck was broken, head bent at an angle, one fuzzy antler sticking up in the air. The smell of fertilizer on the field burned my eyes; the morning light was too bright; we looked at each other and lowered our heads and I drove away.