Work to do, jobs to do, always jobs to do. The deer are eating roses blooming in his garden, quick with the heat of life, strong with the stink of life. So many years, so much of what is now then running sprinting, black dots disappearing over a ridge fifty miles away. Gone like specks of deer you see with a clear heart. Deer are nibbling roses barren in his garden, sleeping in the blue light of winter, hungry in the cold light of dawn.
Life is a long-time if only for a second, it is never ever forever, it is never ever enough.
But if the work is hard enough and the heart is hard enough you can see the deer for fifty miles, you see clear for fifty miles. How a man looks miles from home, hood up, momentum broken. It's said into each life. But his face is a slate innocent of possibility however remote. Many a student, longing the empty chair, writes to spite blisters on a blackboard that never ends.