Deer in the road

Deer in the snow
at least 200! Exclaims dad
and The Weasel is off, running, animal
instincts taking over for domestic stupor.

Last week, coming home from the library,
I paused at the entrance to the yard
just beyond the driveway.
Mottled and bare, or not yet shedding,
the animals crossed before me.
one
by
one
by
eighteen
ninteteen
twenty-one
twenty-seven?
Maybe
I counted them all or missed plenty.

Big brown eyes and full, sonar-ears
a doe paused beside me
sheltered in my car.
White rump and tail flicked in triumph
(I had stopped after all)
she bounded across the yard and into frozen stubble.
Fear, not hers
but mine in that moment:
would the herd keep running, plow into me?
They've done it before
and dented my conscience.