Walton Lake Deer

Sitting on the back deck

Just about thirty minutes after

A downpour that blew through

With a passing front,

Rainwater dripping

Slowly from branches and eaves,

We notice a slight soundless movement

In the tree line.

We are sipping Chianti in the quiet

As people do who have sat long together

And have little more to say.

It is after sunset

In the moments between light and dark

And the family of deer

Is moving gently toward Walton Lake.

They know we are there, of course,

Backlit as we are by the kitchen lights

But we hold our breath

Slowly lower our wine glasses

And sit as still as old trees

As if they won’t notice.

How must it be,

So certain you are invisible,

To walk through dark forests

To share such close communion

To feel every twig and sigh of air

To live so unafraid?

And yet they are so careful

Each step placed just so

Between fallen tree limbs

Rocks and mounds

As we watch and strain to watch

Until they blend into their world

And are gone from us forever.

Some of these days

It would be so fine

To step out into the loblolly pines,

Lay hands upon the deer,

Feel their muscles tremble

with delight

And with them disappear.