A brown mule deer, waiting all winter
for this tall spring-flowered grass,
steps from my sight, devouring the landscape.

I cannot tell if light west wind tossles
the ripened heads of fortuitous stalks,
or the hunger-driven workings of
his mandibles gives me this impress.

I see some of myself in him when I look.
The oaks are breeding precious leaves.
The hawks defend their air space,
hover in shrinking circles.

This narrowing unique valley,
locked away, so far from anybody,
and yet close to the places where I think
we all would like to be.

The hills of the central valley are so many.
Enough of them keep rolling that I know
one rolls for whoever has tired of winter.

Soon the deer will be fat.
The grass will flip back to brown,
and nobody will come visit for many months.
This is how seasons turn.

He drives along the empty road
Till his headlights fall upon the deer
He stops, inches from its body.
Its dark eyes widen with fear.
Hazel brown eyes: Just like his daughter’s

He blares his horn repeatedly
To scare it off with the loud sound
A vain attempt; the stag stays
Unmoving, it holds its ground.
Obstinate creature: Just like his daughter.

He groans in frustration,
The animal stares in silence;
Its eyes shine with a hint of anger
It’s stance the picture of defiance  
Quietly rebellious: Just like his daughter.

Through his window, he shouts at it
To move off the narrow road
But the deer just stands, looking confused,
Instead of running off to its abode
It doesn’t understand: Just like his daughter.

Doesn’t it know to run away?
He’s never seen such behaviour;
Such a myriad of emotions  
Expressed by a simple deer.
It’s an enigma: Just like his daughter.

He looks helplessly at the deer,
Unsure of what will happen now
He’s almost out of options but
He knows he’ll find a way somehow.
After all, he never gives up: Just like his daughter.

The deer are buried up to their necks
in the sandy soil
the struggle for purchase
frees them
into a pack of black wolves jaws

Stumble on the ragged bones and fur of a deer above the spring,
choke on fear and grab your dog, drag him (and you) away.
Three years later, come upon the picked over corpse of a button buck in the upper field,
notice that there’s only half of it, back away and shudder.
Older now, pass half a dozen bloated carcasses along back country roads,
sigh, swerve to avoid the bloodstains on the pavement.
Meanwhile, your father’s got a doe in the bed of the truck strapped down still warm,
step back to keep the ****** snow off your boots, smile.
There is blood dripping from your nose and your brain feels like it’s rotting,
a blight of molding fur in a fallow field; picture fire, not bones.
Before, herds crept from the tree line at dusk while you sat around the flames,
grazing the lower field until they bolted at the howl of coyotes.
There is a bottle of pills and a carved antler whistle on your dresser;
one could save you, one might **** you. You know which is which.
Stagger through the woods with blurring eyes and a hanging head,
trip on a mouse-chewed antler and pick it up, smile, list right.
There is a white fawn standing plain in the bottom field that will disappear come winter.
Pull the arrows from your eyes; you can feel them, you know they’re there.
When the pain leaves you will run, fleet as deer, and outstrip the exhaustion that
howls at your heels. You will be alive again, and stop rotting.
Meanwhile, try not to trip on your bones, body trying to drop as though from a headshot.
Don’t lie down yet- the blood will scrub clean eventually.