With moon on the brink,

Dawn comes

In the sink of night


Blue pink.


 And dusk,


The day,

Hides away

In late afternoon,


To bring nocturnal



And  air whirring Owls

Who troll,

Watch and wait

For mice and voles,

As they leave

Their earthen holes,


 Challenging fate

But not as they thought,

Because dusk has brought


At five O’clock.


 At just that time,

I walk the edge

Of this other world—


The woods, the marsh,

The feeding lawn,

Which lies still

From dawn

To dusk,



The lust

Of survival will,

Stir blood

Of one or the other.


In the still

There is a gentler


To life.


The Doe

Nested in the mangled

Tangle of briar

And monkey vine,

hid from harm,


In the fading light,

Heard commotion —-

 Leaping up

Clear to sight




By the motion

Of  being close.


This time of year

She knows the fear

Of human  harm–

The fire of guns


Terrified little ones.


 But it was early,

And she—young,

Perhaps this once,

Had none to fear.

On the trek to the river

She drew near

The lawn,

While I came along.


 She froze,

I froze,

Her long plumed tail

Shot up ,

A flag of beauty

To the flight.


 Then she nodded

Taking wind of calm

As I showed slack,


Signing her silent psalm

By nodding back,

 Motionless otherwise

To the pause.


 She move slowly

Here and there,

To eat broad leaved violets,


She knew

Grew in patches

On her customary path.


 She came as close

As wild hearts may,

And on that day

I could smell

Musty marsh,

Sweet grass

And bramble spirit.


 For a split second

She stared at me,

Dark, huge eyes

Wise with knowing,

As she passed,

Then bounded away.

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