I saw the crow first, on the shoulder turned 
to mud, then its shadow, then the cage

of bone arcing up from the muck. January 
thaw, the doe untagged, head intact—the rope

looped about her neck, blue and man-made.
Below the neck, the body emptied,

the muscle inexpertly butchered, no 
doubt, in some dark hollow, the ribs scraped

a dirty gray—gristle and fat, the remnants. 
Look: all of this was out of season, the doe