Two, three, four, maybe 25 deer in the side space, the preserve, off the road. Something like deer between us, something lovely to look at, fleet of foot, fleeting as the car.
I see no vultures, I see no vultures. Six vultures I see plus one dead deer makes seven. God in heaven. Humming Olds, eight. Vultures scatter carrying sinews away, streamers.
The straight line is the best line. The line with jags is the best line. Of all the lines drawn between us most cannot be crossed.
A gray pigeon meets us at the front porch, sturdy as funerary. Something takes off between us with multiple legs to run and carry it.
All lines between us infinite, inhabited by a different ghost of a specific dead us. So many ghosts between us. [End Page 132]
Christopher Hund lives with his family outside Chicago in a small town caught between the spreading suburbs and rural lake country of northern Illinois. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he has recently published the chapbook In Forest Static (Convulsive Editions). He works for a nonprofit healthcare-improvement organization.