Deer in the Suburbs
Stepping out the front door
I see a fawn standing not ten feet away,
its mother another space behind.
We freeze, the deer and I.
Startled, we regard one another
suspended in a long moment.
This is the fawn we found two days before,
curled in a nest of grass and brush
while the doe grazed unseen not far away.
We left it lie in its instinctive invisibility,
scentless, motionless to prey.
I am drawn into the fawn’s eye,
that dark infinity where life abides
with beauty, peace and innocence.
I want to know its depths, its secrets,
be one with its spirit,
feel the wildness.
The doe turns and walks away
and the spotted fawn runs behind
in its newborn rocking gait,
and we see them cross the street
and disappear behind the trees
of a neighbor’s yard.
Richard Green lives in southern New Mexico in the Rio Grande Valley. He writes about natural phenomena mostly. His poetry can be seen in The Almagre Review, Penwood Review, Sin Fronteras/Writers Without Borders, The Avocet, The Anglican Theological Review, and Twitterization Nation. His website is www.anewmexicanpoet.com.