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Becky Faber

Red Wings

I drive cross country,
preferring two-lane roads to the Interstate,
a clear view rather than a blur

I cross the Missouri into a land
I know as Home (although I have not lived here
for the last 2/3 of my life), a place
where I can think, sense, remember

where I have loved, given birth, and grieved

I am different here—
a woman with a history,
a story

Seven deer cross the road in front of me,
twenty-eight feet from the Deer Crossing sign
giving credence to its value,
yet contradicting the direction of the mighty buck
embossed on metal

The urge that moves them—the mating on this Spring day—
does not impact the red-winged blackbirds
who watch from posts along the way,
their hearts on their sleeves