We came upon the maggot sucked bones.
Sticks of rib dust. Buster sniffing the matted
winter thawed grass for what was once life.
Belonging to what a deer must have been —
all fawned and agile jumping through the snow
until coy dogs ran these bones to exhaustion.
I know the way home. Buster is sniffing still. A clue
he looks at me. I say — get away — get away from it.
As if he understands- the smell he cannot translate.
Death is in the field and spring is on its way.
We walk towards the woods where it is darker
the sun refusing to warm our bones.
David R. Bowman received a degree in creative writing from Oakland University, Rochester, Mich. His poems have appeared in The Atlanta Review, Pea River Journal, Badlands, Wayne State Review, and Old Northwest Review, among others.
© 2018, David R. Bowman