There was the body of the fawn, in the leaves,
under the tall oaks.
There was the face, the succulent mouth,
the pink, extruded tongue.
There were the eyes.
There was its dark dress, half pulled off.
There were its little hooves.
There was the smell of change, which was
There was my dog's nose, reading the silence
like a book.
No one spoke, not the Creator, not the Preserver, not the Destroyer.
There was the sound of wind in the leaves,
in the tall oaks.
There was the terrible excitement
of the flies.
Two nights ago I saw the movie, "All the Little Animals" that is about, in part, a man who dedicates his life to burying dead animals he finds along the side of the road. He considers this his lifelong work and takes on an apprentice to carry on after he too lies in the ground. At one point in the movie the apprentice, Bobby, silently digs what might be his own grave. As he ponders his own death, he suddenly feels lighter and more whole than he ever has. He notices everything, and in this clarity he grows excited as his life and death give him meaning.
Death, this too, must we not only notice in every detail, but love?
Whose death do you remember in detail, and how does this add to your life today?