Not just for the fresh air
or to walk together on
this November morning,
our white breath pulsing
in the air. And not just to be
distracted, from ordinary
thoughts of work and worry:
that moss, for instance on
the huge granite rock, which
from up close looks like
a filigreed forest of ferns—
being so tiny we could walk
right through it: soft press of
bare feet, it would have to be
summer, moist green grazing
our calves; or that hawk dipping
from one branch to another;
or simply by the old maples
and oaks, the long gray
irregular bars of their reaching.
For all of these we went
walking, but even more, I think,
for that deer you spotted,
standing in the stream,
its fur coat blending in with
the slow brown water.
We could barely make it out.
Otherworldly, the way
it disappeared from time to time,
and then reappeared, when
it tilted its head, and we could
see the arc of white on its nose,
and for a moment, the glistening
circles of its eyes. And how
still it stood in the water.
Art credit: "A deer standing in the water," photograph taken July 7, 2012, by Bruce Atwell.
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