There’s a small wooded cove, encompassed by large “weeping” pine trees that sit directly on the front corner of our yard and abuts the old turnpike route that connects commuters to the highway, only a few seconds east-bound.

Oddly enough, the front of our house faces a tree-line full of these weeping pines, only behind which, sits the road. It sort of gives the impression our humble house was dropped in place from above with no real understanding of how the structure would settle into its natural landscape. I guess because it sort of was.

We use this area to compost yard refuge, expired Christmas trees, and rotten vegetation — like the huge carved pumpkin I hurled at the large oak trunk (off-screen to the right) to watch it smash and scatter in half a dozen pieces — part of me is stuck in 7th grade.

Shortly thereafter, the white fur line of the corpse strikes my eye, and after a half beat, I instinctively grab at my pocket for a camera.

Upon closer examination, the young whitetail buck has no apparent flesh or entrance wounds. He just lay still. Dead there in his final resting place. I imagine from some sort of natural cause, whatever that means.

I found it odd that his head rests perched due north, with his eyes wide open. I hope his last sight was the restful night sky.