After

A grisly morning. Sleepdrunk and blear-eyed, with a marathon runner’s full-body ache and hands that felt flayed—I swear, even rolled in FBI ink I would have left no fingerprints. I hear D calling from downstairs, stagger to the window, and look out on the backyard.

There’s a thin, miserable light, and fog so thick I cannot see St. Christopher’s steeple fifty yards away; but three sleek deer, antlerless and smoky gray, are feeding at the bushes by the property-line, clustered around the sprays of tiny red berries, jostling each other. The largest shoots an occasional dirty look at the house, but mostly they just go about their business, ignoring us. Their velvety flanks steam in the fine morning rain, and I can imagine their warm breath, smelling of green, and the sound of their grinding teeth.

I watch them for a long time, then turn away and go back to bed.