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Fawn
Dawn, twins arrive, behind the fir,
her second year of birth. By noon
a third lies dead near spotted lumps
asleep in leaves under dogwood tree.
She has time to feed on tulips,
columbine, laurel, choice weeds.
I sneak out, cover what’s left
of blueberry with net, put out salt,
tub of water, lock the gate.
Four hours pass, my window vigil —
are they alive — YES, first, one,
then the other totters out, begins
to nurse. Garden-pot tall,
spindly, unsure, they stray,
nose the grass. Ears rise, turn
to each new sound, somehow
they re-find her, reach up, nuzzle,
drink. Both wobble away, lie
amid planters warmed by sun —
begin to nap. Mom reclines, rests
in grass, chews, grooms — ears
keep track of cat on patio,
boy-brawl next door, blended sounds
of skittering squirrel,
dipping jay, pressure-washer whir.
The pattern repeats three times,
dusk, dark — I fail to sleep.
Day two mirrors one — teeter
through salal, day lilies, taste peas,
return to teat. Rest three hours, nose
young leeks, cross lawn, find mom.
Third morning, she leaps the gate,
I prop it open, later see her go,
twins in tow. They lurch along —
to gone. I bury the dead fawn.
(published by Toasted Cheese) |
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 Copywrited photo by Timothy Pilgrim
 Steve Giordano photo
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