Daybreak, Drought

 

Daybreak, Drought

Sun rises in a dry sky,
we walk a dirt road,
the dog and I.
Rounding a bend
little Mickey halts,
one paw lifted.

Three deer—a buck, a doe, a fawn—
senses ablaze with the twitch of ear,
quiver of nose, blink of eye
take our measure.

The buck has a handsome rack
but I can see ribs, count the bones.
I once saw a doe maul a dog,
cracking the skull with her forelegs
to protect a fawn. Mickey
with uncommon good judgment
stays frozen by my ankle.

A moment, mild,
of silent negotiation,
the domestic and the wild.
With such hunger the fawn
might eat from my hand
before the buck spears me.

The doe breaks first,
up a hillside so vertical
her hooves can’t hold.
She slides back,
then on a switchback leaps again
followed quickly by the fawn
as the buck remains,
impassive and supreme,
gentleman and protector,
what you wish in your own father, frankly,
and then he follows
with that head-bobbing walk
balancing antlers
into the parched brush
holding our gaze
until vanished.

…..

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in Plum Tree Tavern—thank you editor Russel Streur
Photo by Andy Choinski