At Dusk The Deer

                                    At dusk the whitetail deer

                                    come down from the forest

                                    to graze in my front yard,

                                    an old pasture gone back

                                    to popple, where apple trees

                                    grow by a riprap wall.

                                    Moist muzzles drooling froth

                                    and juice, with pink tongues

                                    they lick each other's face

                                    and bolt every windfall.

                                    Near their habitual path

                                    I lie in hiding, ear cocked

                                    for deft feet in the leaves.

                                    When a young buck comes up

                                    over the top of the hill

                                    he almost steps on me, crouching

                                    in the tall grass.  He sneezes

                                    in surprise, just like an Indian,

                                    and high-scuts back down

                                    to where his shy doe waits.

                                    Then to my surprise he spreads

                                    his ears and prances with stately

                                    high-stepping decision right at me.

                                    Six-feet away he stops and stamps,

                                    trying to make me jump, but I freeze

                                    in my place, tho my heart won't

                                    stay put.  Suspiciously

                                    he circles, keeping me in sight.

                                    Stopping he tilts his head

                                    seeking the best angle.

                                    His large brown eyes are alert

                                    and curious, not dull

                                    and yellow-streaked, rheumy

                                    with resentment, like eyes

                                    I have seen at the zoo.

                                    As if he trusted me

                                    he drops his head, browsing

                                    for acorns in the moss.

                                    I can see velvet nubs

                                    where his antlers will grow.

                                    Nostrils quivering, he lifts

                                    his head, nosing for messages.

                                    If I meant him any harm

                                    I know he'd smell my fear

                                    or hate, but I am calm

                                    and will speak when I can,

                                    tho the feel is not right.

                                    My softest voice is not for them—

                                    snorting alarm they dance off

                                    in the dark and are gone.