Nov 152012

by Keith Moul


From my open window

I hear before I see

the doe and fawn

come through the woods

toward the clearing.


As one alert

to danger, she stands and looks,

then, in danger, eats

from among abundant leaves.

The fawn accrues this knowledge.


My new fence denies the doe

remembered excellent repasts

and ancient routes inherited.

Minutes of staring, caution,

with mouths full,

before they turn back

to the darker woods.


Inside my fence is my place;

I do not eat my lush vegetation.


I see before I hear their going,

or, maybe I do not hear

their returning to their world’s

dangerous woods.