Deer in the Bush


They come down
in the mornings, sniff
the green edges of our lives
munch the hydrangeas.

Shadows let them.
They step
in a pool of shade,
their legs spindly as twigs,

inquisitively
nosing our flowers,
nudging us out on the porch
to watch them

watch us for a sign.
They do not blink.
They measure our moving towards them
and won't be fooled,

letting their pleasure wilt on the bush
till they can be sure of us.
Nothing between us now but
wood and air. Wait,

I can see a buck
up on his hind legs, wrestling a
branch down, his velvet mouth
dripping berries.

He's at home in our patch of seasons
like an old uncle
who comes when he pleases, and keeps
the secrets of the tribe.