Traveling Through the Dark
By William Stafford
By William 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 . . .
Then . . . What?
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 . . .
Then . . . What?
Well, then the poet made a decision.
What did he decide, you ask? What did he actually do?
Before we get to that, let’s just stay here for a moment.
Between things. Not knowing.
Pause.
Consider the following assertion.
The poem is about you. And, of course, your difficult decision.
Now consider a few questions, if you will.
What do you think happened next?
Why?
If that’s what did happen, how would you feel?
What do you wish happened next?
Why?
Assume you’re the “I” writing the poem.
What gender are you? How can you tell?
What if you were the opposite gender?
Would you still hesitate?
Would you make a different decision?
(Remember, we still don’t know what decision you made.)
But what if you’re not just the “I”?
What if, as in a dream, you’re all the characters?
The whole “group,” as the poet says. “All of us.”
How might that affect your ultimate decision?
Say, for example, you’re the dead doe.
Go ahead, imagine.
You’re lying there. Dead.
Your only child lies there with you. Within you.
Alive. Still. Full of possibility.
What would you decide, if you were the doe?
But wait. What if you’re the fawn?
What would you add to the conversation?
And what if you’re the wilderness, listening?
What, exactly, do you hope to hear?
What if you’re the car? Idling by the road. Going nowhere.
Or one of the other two cars?
You know, the one that killed the doe. And kept going.
Or the one that might--or might not—swing around the bend at any moment.
In the dark.
The Bottom Line.
Okay, so what happened next?
Really. Forget the hypotheticals.
What did William Stafford do?
Let’s read this thing again.
This time, I’ll add the final line. The bottom line, as they say in business.
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.
Pause.
Breathe.
How do you feel about that?
Stay with it.
This is important.
Now, consider the hard decision you need to make.
You’re traveling through the dark.
You find something unexpected.
You hesitate.
All of us—whoever or whatever we are—are there.
With you.
Waiting. Watching. Listening.
What happens next?
—Jay E. Valusek
____________________________________________________________________________________________
“Traveling through the Dark” (1962) by William Stafford can be found in The Way It Is: New & Selected Poems (Graywolf Press, 1998).
What did he decide, you ask? What did he actually do?
Before we get to that, let’s just stay here for a moment.
Between things. Not knowing.
Pause.
Consider the following assertion.
The poem is about you. And, of course, your difficult decision.
Now consider a few questions, if you will.
What do you think happened next?
Why?
If that’s what did happen, how would you feel?
What do you wish happened next?
Why?
Assume you’re the “I” writing the poem.
What gender are you? How can you tell?
What if you were the opposite gender?
Would you still hesitate?
Would you make a different decision?
(Remember, we still don’t know what decision you made.)
But what if you’re not just the “I”?
What if, as in a dream, you’re all the characters?
The whole “group,” as the poet says. “All of us.”
How might that affect your ultimate decision?
Say, for example, you’re the dead doe.
Go ahead, imagine.
You’re lying there. Dead.
Your only child lies there with you. Within you.
Alive. Still. Full of possibility.
What would you decide, if you were the doe?
But wait. What if you’re the fawn?
What would you add to the conversation?
And what if you’re the wilderness, listening?
What, exactly, do you hope to hear?
What if you’re the car? Idling by the road. Going nowhere.
Or one of the other two cars?
You know, the one that killed the doe. And kept going.
Or the one that might--or might not—swing around the bend at any moment.
In the dark.
The Bottom Line.
Okay, so what happened next?
Really. Forget the hypotheticals.
What did William Stafford do?
Let’s read this thing again.
This time, I’ll add the final line. The bottom line, as they say in business.
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.
Pause.
Breathe.
How do you feel about that?
Stay with it.
This is important.
Now, consider the hard decision you need to make.
You’re traveling through the dark.
You find something unexpected.
You hesitate.
All of us—whoever or whatever we are—are there.
With you.
Waiting. Watching. Listening.
What happens next?
—Jay E. Valusek
____________________________________________________________________________________________
“Traveling through the Dark” (1962) by William Stafford can be found in The Way It Is: New & Selected Poems (Graywolf Press, 1998).
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