Species Management

At some point, the deer stopped dying.
We did not know how to ask them why
Or through what biological entanglement,
Or what wonder might be coming next.
It did not seem to complicate their lives.
They persisted much as deer always have,
Save we kept seeing more of them,
They wandered more often into strangled
Suburban yards, bounced off
More cars and trucks, made
Ornamental gardens impossible.
Soon they will be showing up
In city centers, blocking the end points
Of escalators in unawed office buildings.
In no time there will be so many of them
They will elicit no wonder. Children
Will try half-heartedly to ride on their backs;
Homeowners will not stare from their kitchens
Pointing, coffee cups tilted slyly floorward.
I feel for the deer. What of their grandeur?
What of their sylvan majesty?
Deer season is declared year-round
But none are taken. Eventually
Deer will stand shoulder to shoulder,
Withers to withers, across
All of the earth, choking out
The sorry lot of us, choking out
Even the grass and the trees. Then
They will strive for the quaking stars,
Deer buoyed by competing gravities,
Crossing the oceans of Space unthinking,
Propelled by merely their own numbers.
Yes, this is how the Universe ends,
This how time itself unwinds:
With the death of death.