Death in Late October Revisited

John Allen Taylor  (bio)

The fawn didn’t understand steel and glass at forty-five miles an hour even to the point of
impact. Even after glass and light shattered within its rib cage, and moths half disintegrated
smote into dust between the grill and the skull. No hunt here. No stalking. No ivory fangs or
frantic chase. There was only the road. One step. And darkness. The fawn lay on its ruined side
in the gutter, still walking. Hooves hooving at nothing. Where is my breath? How could the fawn
understand Roy Orbison crooning from the radio or the man shaking above her or the rock in his
white knuckled fist poised forever above her one good eye?

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