The Deer

When I see the first one, I am sitting on my friend's porch, her son in the yard in front of us.  In the yard across the street, a deer.  Standing there.  Looking around slowly.  A baby maybe, or at least not an adult.  Sleek, lithe, strong, solid.  Beautiful.  I tell my friend and her son, and we gaze.  Her son wants to call out, "Deer!" but we tell him to talk softly so we don't scare the deer.  She stays a few minutes more, then having given us a glimpse of her calm and grace, skips away gently and quickly.

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Hours later I am walking in the woods near my house.  I am looping back to meet a girlfriend, so I head over the dry creekbed, stepping on the rocks, and pick up my pace.  Around me the leaves seem a richer green because of the earlier rain.  I'm a hundred yards from the entrance, and likely my friend, when I stop: on the trail, ahead of me, not far from me, much closer than this morning, are two deer, a mom and child, I think.  I stop and look at them, and they look at me.

A month ago, on another trail in these woods I saw a deer.  I was on the phone with my sister, and I was surprised first by the deer and then by the deer's not moving when it saw me.  I wanted it to move, expected it to move.  But no.  It stayed there.  I felt a bit scared when it wouldn't move, fearful of moving myself.  It started to eat the grass beside the trail, taking its time.  Eventually I walked the other way.

But today I don't feel scared or nervous.  I feel curious.  Calm.  They stand there, then move a little to eat.  They don't seem afraid of me, just sure of themselves, composed, relaxed even.  I watch them eat.  Still.  

I want them to stay there so I can keep watching them.

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One day.

Three deer.

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 a poem version:

The first is defiant

standing in my path

on the trail 

looking for food

not moving

I'm on the phone

with my sister

in awe but

also impatient

wanting to take

that same trail

on which he stands.

I turn back on my trail,

giving up.

The second is across the street

in a yard

when I point her out to

the three-year-old son

of my friend.

A safe distance this time

to admire

not confront

to stare

to revel

to enjoy.

The third and fourth are

together

back in my woods

on the trail

in front of me

a mother and baby

perhaps

a tableaux 

with the leaves and dirts and trail

around them.

They are the closest

unafraid

and this time I'm 

unafraid, too,

again in awe,

but more patient this time,

more calm,

more amazed that they

are allowing me

to be this close

to witness their 

standing

staring 

eating.

I don't want them to leave.

But they do.

They lightly lift

their heavy bodies

from the trail

to the wild

again, three steps

and they are 

through the woods,

and I see the skinny

graceful legs fly

and hear the leaves

crinkle.

And they are gone.  

Again.