“Four deer hung in the dark. A drain fly landed near the blood undrying on the floor and tested the surface tension with a foreleg: water is thinner, and the wings may fold, the body a cracked bathysphere in the liquid scum of the drain – but that was home and the fly entered (“This request is denied completely," a cylindrical whisper in the lead shell of the pipe) and drowned and tumbled into a sludge of buck hair and mud where the pipe bent and redirected the runoff into the small pond down the hill built, like the other two ponds, by the original owners, who loaded them with fish, frogs, and turtles for their children to catch, practice for the wild hunt they were meant to inherit from their fathers when they grew up.”