Tagad, kad visi kukainīši un zirneklīši ir pamodušies, kad ar mitru cigareti pie lūpas ir izdzerta aukstā kafija, bet lielākā daļa draugu vēl čuč, tagad ir laiks lūgties piedošanu.
Par mammu un tēti, vecmāmiņu un vectētiņu, un mūžīgo tevi, par pāri palikušo laiku uz zemes, par visām spitālīgajām kļūdām, no kurām vajag mācīties.
Dažas stundas iepriekš tālās gaismas miglā iztaustīja šosejas tumšās kontūras, bet augšā cēlās notriektās lapsas pēdējā elpa.
Tad uzleca saule un piespieda zemei putnus ar siltuma skaisto spēku, un līdz ar viņiem pār visiem mums – piedošanu.
Traveling through the dark I found a deer dead on the edge of the Wilson River road. It is usually best to roll them into the canyon: that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing; she had stiffened already, almost cold. I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason— her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting, alive, still, never to be born. Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights; under the hood purred the steady engine. I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red; around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—, then pushed her over the edge into the river.
—
Tagad, kad visi kukainīši un zirneklīši ir pamodušies, kad ar mitru cigareti pie lūpas ir izdzerta aukstā kafija, bet lielākā daļa draugu vēl čuč, tagad ir laiks lūgties piedošanu.
Par mammu un tēti, vecmāmiņu un vectētiņu, un mūžīgo tevi, par pāri palikušo laiku uz zemes, par visām spitālīgajām kļūdām, no kurām vajag mācīties.
Dažas stundas iepriekš tālās gaismas miglā iztaustīja šosejas tumšās kontūras, bet augšā cēlās notriektās lapsas pēdējā elpa.
Tad uzleca saule un piespieda zemei putnus ar siltuma skaisto spēku, un līdz ar viņiem pār visiem mums – piedošanu.
BY WILLIAM E. STAFFORD
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.