A Field in Tennessee

The doe caught in the fence is dead of course.
Her fawns – cute as can be – wait in the weeds
For her to untangle herself from this.
Circling through their vortex of appetite
Buzzards soar, flight feathers slicing light,
Their shadows altering the way chance lies.
This is a waiting game. Cicadas buzz
In the woods beyond. A slow black snake slides
Across a stone. Nothing’s still and nothing
Seems to move. Even the tangled wires hum,
Carrying old news, these matters of fact.
Like dried blood on barbs deflecting the light,
Like the swarm of flies promising new life,
Nothing’s pointless under the spinning sun.