Deer

 A fawn, in the dark, running down the street, towards the car. Headlights, of course, vast directing. The car stopped but the frightened young one served the momentum of fear. It ran into the car with a falling clatter, rose, and continued running down the street. Following directly, the doe with valiant concern signifying look. Something scared the young one and it ran without control. Rudiments of living in the rudiments. The mordant sentence spoke the formation that astonishes to admit. We are weak and unlikely. Our fears become conveyors. Light rose from the doe. Breath asks with every pulsing: are you alive? Are you the fright and persistence? Are you ready to blend into the world? Deers will fly someday and they will be rocks. The crisp determined trees place you in the raucous wilderness, a mooncoin foaming value. High flown guffaws as matches are struck, the familiar discerned. Coyne's bog land, in the language fluster. It stands in what we see we are. Or are not, free of negation, quantified in looming value. You, me, it, what the fuss fancies.