As in, it’s meant to get cold this week. Doesn’t it
feel better that way? Like somebody’s in charge.
The way the deer that darted in front of my car
meant to outrun my bumper, put centuries
of DNA behind that intention. It worked.
We’re both OK. We took a breath and jumped
to a different page in the story. I’m not sure
about the deer, but I got to admire the reservoir,
now they’ve taken down the trees along the road
and we’re meant to see beauty we could only
suppose was there before: low winter sun
on water glittering like the scales of an enormous
fish, little fishes swimming in its belly. That fractal
logic. It occurs to me that these are pieces
of a very large puzzle. My dendrites yearn
toward a solution—they’re hard-working
little stars—but even they can’t wrap their bright
tentacles around it, there’s only so much
we can process: blur of deer, disappeared trees,
the wind-borne acorn that smacked my windshield
so hard it made me jump. It occurs to me
that had I been on foot, that acorn might’ve
drilled into my brain like a rogue meteor. But I’m
guessing that’s not how I’m meant to go.
When I lie awake at night, scanning constellations
behind my eyes, that’s not what I suppose.

Amy Dryansky

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