What I noticed most about the deer browsing in the light rain today was
the repeated flick, flick, flick of their tails as if to shed the droplets of water.
I thought the rainy light would spoil the pictures, but I like the way they came out;
the light is so even. It also darkened their coats and gave their backs a sheen.
The spots on the fawns are almost completely gone now.
A Letter in October
Dawn comes later and later now,
and I, who only a month ago
could sit with coffee every morning
watching the light walk down the hill
to the edge of the pond and place
a doe there, shyly drinking,
then see the light step out upon
the water, sowing reflections
to either side—a garden
of trees that grew as if by magic—
now see no more than my face,
mirrored by darkness, pale and odd,
startled by time. While I slept,
night in its thick winter jacket
bridled the doe with a twist
of wet leaves and led her away,
then brought its black horse with harness
that creaked like a cricket, and turned
the water garden under. I woke,
and at the waiting window found
the curtains open to my open face;
beyond me, darkness. And I,
who only wished to keep looking out,
must now keep looking in.