David Baker reads
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my neighbors say, when what they mean are deer—the foragers, the few at a time, fair if little more than rats, according to a farmer friend nearby, whose corn means plenty. They nip the peaches, and one bite ruins; hazard every road with their running- into-headlights- not-away; a menace; plague; something should be done. Or here in town, where I’ve found a kind of afterlife—the townies hate the damage to their varie- gated hostas, shadeside ferns—what they do inside white bunkers of the county’s one good course is “criminal,” deep scuffs through the sand—that’s one thing—but lush piles of polished- olive-droppings, hoof- ruts in the chemically- and color-enriched greens… Yet here’s one more, curled like a tan seashell not a foot from my blade, just- come-to-the- world fawn, speckled, wet as a trout, which I didn’t see, hacking back brush beneath my tulip poplar—it’s not afraid, mews like a kitten, can’t walk—there are so many, too many of us, the world keeps saying, and the world keeps making—this makes no sense— more.