1.
They gathered
on the far side of the brook after
my yellow Labrador made the turn
to gather the stick I had thrown
into the plunge pool, using her tail,
as a rudder, to stop, turn, and start
back to where I stood; and
I looked up to see the three does,
white tails flicking, studying me;
fervently twitching their black noses,
to discern whether I was enemy,
or friend, and before Cider could
make it back to the brook’s bank,
shake herself, and drop the stick
for another possible round of fetch,
the three of them huffed, audibly,
their breaths clouding the air,
straightening themselves, having
seen enough, now disinterested,
their hooves beginning to echo
over the round stones protruding
from the mud of the far bank,
moving away in time to
that deep tock, clop, tock, clop,
I can still hear across the shale
and puddingstone shelf lining
the brook’s banks, to merge into
a seam of the blowing mist rolling
across the greening acres
of meadow that is Haskins’ Flats.
2.
Whatever it might be
that just happens to go crashing
through thick woods always
sounds as if it is larger than
it is as it emerges into the open.
So, when I stopped hiking
and I came upon the scrub
meadow at the foot
of Mount Toby that overlooks
Cranberry Pond, due to those
sounds coming from the birch
grove, whose leaves flutter there,
my pounding heart and myself
expecting bear; the two of them
stumbled out of the woods
and came to a skidding halt,
entwined, as if their game of tag,
or whatever deer game they
were playing resulted in a tie,
since they were both it,
simultaneously. If deer can
look chagrined, these two
adolescents were taken aback
by their own ardor, as they
stared at me, an intruder now
made privy to their own sport,
their private frivolity, their
inimitable rites of becoming and
being deer. Whereas, I smiled,
and as they untangled hoof
and limb, they kept their eyes
on me, trusting me, perhaps,
only just a little bit, or maybe
hoping to, when they began
sauntering quietly back toward
the grove of windy birches,
looking all the more nonchalant,
turning their heads once before
soundlessly moving back again
among the boughs of summer.
3.
Always in a rush,
this morning was no exception—
except there it was,
a buck, antlered, standing still
in the corner of the patch of land
I had cleared a year earlier
at the northeastern corner
of the knoll that is Fort Juniper,
on the side of the house
Robert Francis had the small
shed built, and where he would
sunbathe, in the privacy of leafy
trees, shielding him from the road.
Book bag over one shoulder,
coffee mug in one hand, car keys
in the other, I thought not this
time, as I held the buck’s visage,
our eyes steadily trained on each
other, not even a single muscle
flinching in either one of us—
and my fully entering that zone
of timelessness in experiencing
being with an animal in the wild.
Except, finally, I was shocked
that it wasn’t me, the human,
who moved first, and that,
actually, not only moved, but
regally strolled away with
a distinct toss of its head, as if
to indicate it had not the time
for these humans who stand
around, doing their own best
imitation of a placard, even
having the hubris to think they
know anything about deer,
since, let’s get this straight
right now, it is deer that know
something about them, and
not the other way around.