Dad said someone shot
the albino deer, with
a gun, out of season. Eyes
pink, white fur, a reverse
shadow in dusk against
the hillside. Not in all
the years I’ve hunted
have I seen an animal
like that. It’s cruel, he says,
for nature to make
such a thing, unable
to hide when hiding
is how it survives. He looks
through my eyes, then
away, he wants us to stay
ordinary men.