Ribs on a hillside. You’re now just bleached ribs on a hillside slowly sinking into the soil. The rest of you has been recycled, by vultures, by micro organisms, by sun and wind and rain and time. You were once a deer bounding across the meadows running free in the morning breeze. Then one horrible night as you leaped in alarm to cross the highway before the approach of the blinding light there was a flash and tremendous bang and you were dead. I saw your remains on the side of the road being torn slowly apart by coyotes in the night and vultures in the day. I saw them strew your remains across the landscape dragged this way and that until all that remained was ribs on a hillside. The ancient cycle grinds inexorably on.