Three Does and a Buck

By Karin Rosman

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They’re so thin that the father of four can see their sun-struck ribs from his pickup, not thirty feet away. The decision’s easy; they’re inside the fence meant to keep this year’s steers out, trampling to mildew the once symmetrical stack of timothy. His finger hesitates until after he swallows. His fogged exhale freezes and disappears. In the belly-deep snow, in the trampled hay, in their stunned hunger, they’re easy pickings. At home, the mother of four hears, presses her copper bracelets against the table, willing the metal to carry away the pain, unfurl her fingers.                                                                                                

Karin Rosman's stories have appeared in Summerset Review, Platte Valley Review, and Gargoyle, among others. She lives in Seattle with her husband and son.