It was quiet in the car, and Sarah asked what I wanted to listen to while we drove. She doesn’t like to choose, and I didn’t have strong feelings either way, so I suggested she turn on the folk music she likes. It’s a reliable vibe, and the acoustic guitar and gentle lyricism proved a pleasant backdrop for what felt like an idyllic fall morning.

We were driving to Philadelphia, early November, and the leaves were a smattering of reds and yellows and oranges, the colors brought out in brilliant relief against a canvas of birch trees and the light patchiness of broad Sycamores. I had my hand on the back of Sarah’s neck, playing with her hair and massaging her head with my fingertips. She had her hand resting on my leg. I reached down to hold it, and as I did, noticed a dead deer on the side of the road. Its thorax was bloated and its tongue hung out the side of its mouth. Flies swarmed over the dark, bulging eyes and out from under its thick, curled-back lips. It lay there putrifying on the asphalt, decomposing just out of reach of the welcoming forest soils, rich and magnificent and full of life.

We drove on. The folk singer sang on. Of gratitude, how happy she was to want to give, how happy she was to love to live. Her lulling melodies carried us through the technicolor beauty of an East Coast autumn--when the weather is cool and the golden hour comes before dinner time.

We came to another deer. This one’s hindquarters twisted and ripped, its neck broken and head yanked back, resting neatly on the dorsal side of its torso. The music continued, the lieda-lieda-lays, the soft strumming of chords. And there was another deer. And another. And then one exploded, its remains joined with tire rubber as the head of some morbid comet tailed by blood and entrails splashed across the freeway like paint. Cars rocketed toward the city. The baby was asleep. Leaves wafted down from high up above, flipping and dancing in the air as if they’d fall forever.

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