In the woods when the summer gives out
a few leaves linger
above the cyclone yellow dog,
then, deer
here. Above a ridge – an old stone foundation,
and not even heard –
no white-tail-sprint
with yellow dog bounding
uselessly behind
so huge, eyes just filled
with oily black, only, deer
gone.
In January, the village hires a sharp-shooter
and pays him from the general fund
to cull the herd.
The talk in the coffee shop;
how to keep them away from your garden-
marigolds, ugly fences, snakeheads,
the stupid old couple that keeps feeding them –
only feeding them is helping them starve –
what the hell do they feed them –
who feeds a deer?
Talk makes it impractical
to keep all of the commandments.
The irresistible temptation
to mull over and then judge
the everyday goings-on
with palms wrapped
around a warm cup.
Deer here,
In the moment autumn will hit its middle
turning away from summer
hurtling, leaves
hopefully, off of the trees
before the spitting snow
weighs them down
to electric wire-downing mush, deer
gone.
