SEXUALLY RAPACIOUS UNGULATE
We saw you on a mossy hillock near the University of Washington’s marine biology lab on San Juan Island. Your eyes stared down at us. Eyes with nothing in them. Not even death. Not even election anxiety. Just the blank indifference of an animal eye. Your only movement: the hinge-like articulations of your satellite ear. Unlike Donald Trump, you had the high ground. Like Donald Trump, you were fearsome. We’d been warned about bucks raging around the grounds at this time of year, the peak of their rutting season. You were looking for a doe. You wanted to grab her by the hind. You would not hesitate to skewer a mere human with your head-weapon. So we had three choices: (1) run at you screaming with the fire of our race, (2) walk east along the perilous cliff bordering the Strait of Juan de Fuca, (3) walk deeper into the woods but still across your path. Sunset was 30 minutes out. The day was darkening. Having no arrows, we decided to pick up a rock and cross your path, slowly but confidently, your eyes on us. We passed you without incident.