Commute

Chris Ellery 

September 22, 2024

So far on the way, I’ve counted eight 

dead deer, four armadillos, and a javelina, 

fresh kills all, not even bloated. Up ahead 

vultures peck and pluck a messy smear 

that might have been a fox or feral dog.

One day, just here, a young owl flew out 

of the bar ditch like a clay pigeon—PULL! 

BAM!—and shattered my windshield. 

Late one night the biggest buck I ever saw

totaled my truck and damn near killed me. 

I reckon I’ve slaughtered, on my long commute, 

an ark of creatures, present and future. 

Skunks, possums, rabbits, coons, bobcats, 

turtles, toads, birds, bats. Bugs beyond number, 

the nocturnal blitz of kamikaze protoplasm.

No wonder that so many eyes stare out 

of the night from the dark shoulder of my dreams. 

Eyes, nothing but eyes, disembodied, all colors,

shapes, and sizes, peering out on the country road 

where I travel alone, taking my chances.

Chris Ellery is the author of six poetry collections, most recently One Like Silence, which includes nine of his TPA poems. A nature poet and peace activist, Ellery lives in San Angelo, never tiring of the teeming life along the Red Arroyo.