The Pudu just south of Peru:
The world growled.
I was thrown. Dresser drawers and items tangled.
I counted to sixty maybe twelve times.
My footing failed while I took a breath.
There is a tiny deer in Chile called the Pudu.
Her eyes widen while her shaking hooves grasp to thundering cracks in the earth.
Roaring water engulfed the shore.
I wonder about that tiny deer, the size of a house cat.
Was it’s nestle thrown about like mine?
While the earth growled did it keep its footing?
If only my padded toes were as agile and her hooves.
Maybe then I could cling better to dismembered floorboards.
The sprain in my hand healed somewhat rapidly.
I know others weren’t as lucky. I wept with my neighbor about their losses.
The stress of it all is what took my grandfather.
Weeks after the earth had shaken, his thumping heart ceased.
What a disaster. I have shut my eyes so tight trying to forget.
There is nothing more gut churning than a day the Earth spoils.
The day I counted to sixty twelve times. So violent and sporadic.
I wonder about the Pudus just south of Peru.
Do they mourn the loss of this quaking earth?
Did their hearts thump while their hooves quivered?
Maybe they are more in tune than we know.
Maybe they wept for the earth that was lost; their nestles of dirt they call home.
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