Stag on the Lawn at Sunrise

Hooves on deck boards
wake me out
of dream, antlers

tattered, rack his long
and wandering days
like closets hung with

humble lessons, whole
and broken, he is
the story of many

seasons in these mountains,
and I know that we are
both blessed to be alive

inside the golden
stillness of a delicate
dawn.  We look

at each other
for a long time, mirror
pupils like two black

pools, quieter than
the quietest morning,
and just as softly,

he is gone,
as another
holy day unfurls

into the sunshine of itself
outside the open
window, and my heart,

in equal
parts, breaking
and opening.

Deer, 44 Days Later

Two mangy legs
are all that remain,
chopsticks

sticking up
from a bowl
of white ribs

licked clean
and on the rump,
a round opening,

red, kaleidoscopic
so that the passerby
might see right

through when
she squints
into the sun

and though
embarrassed
(even as she writes),

may linger for
more than
a minute,

less than ten,
to scrutinize
the hole, the hair

the flies.