Blood On the Grass

"To see deer" she said," you must get up at dawn,
And stay downwind,
For I know a couple with their fawn,
Come down at night and sit in
The tall grass until sunrise,
And then, they move on."

It was the third in September,
The smell of Fall, the cool breeze,
The rustle of the trees, and yellow leaves,
Black birds perching on the wire like beads,
The hills and windmills are dark and still,
And sure enough the ears of a deer,
Scanning the meadow between mouthfuls of grass,
And its slender jaws moving from side to side,
With an occasional quiver of its hide.

Otherwise, the universe seems to have taken
A deep breath
And held it inside, but meanwhile death
Has let go, its arrow from its fully stretched bow,
And where the deer stood just a moment ago,
Now just air
And broken blades of grass and there,
The last mouthful was only half in,
And warm crimson blood no faster than running tears,
Ran down from a hole where the cream colored hair
Met the line of soft white fuzz,
Between the neck and the upper chest
And one, wide open eye,
Its long black lashes pointing to the sky
With a thousand why,
A life! a soul mate! a meadow rendered deerless.

Garden of Poetry