Finding beauty in death on a cold winter morning.

I saw a small dead deer in the road yesterday morning at 4:30 a.m.

Bathed in the ghostly white glow of the street lamps lining the overpass, its pallid, twisted form seemed lonely and surreal, almost statuesque.

Blood trickled from its mouth in a thin crimson stream onto cracked, sun bleached asphalt.

I passed slowly, as there were no other vehicles in sight, and I got a good look at it.

Yes, it was sad, in a way. Particularly the look of surprise now permanently etched onto its face.

And yet, it was also strangely beautiful. It was living, temporary art. Death captured so perfectly in the still night air, the artist being the universe itself, of course.

This sculpture of violence and delicate gracefulness transposed reminded me of both the fragility of life in general and the inconsequentiality of individual life, whether it be animal or human, in the grand scheme of things.

Dust in the wind, dude.

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