I walk up the mountain, come upon skull

and ribs of a mule deer. 

A purple larkspur

sprouts from its left hoof. 

A thorny weed

grows from its right eye.
 
Foliage touches its bones in blessing

and I wonder how it died. 

I walk down the mountain, tell myself,

I am not the bullet.

I am not the edge 

of a knife.