Waiting for anything new about deer.
Waiting for everything known about deer.
Waiting for a path to open through the underbrush
stranded here species of watchful waiting, soft
bodied, straddling salal inside
invisibly pixellated environs (densely specific loci
of alertness) who might stride gingerly off or
leap into your swerve. Sinew and twitch and stilted
stepping is our signature through browse, through ponder,
through what’s left of your garden, your uneventful
drive home. Who would carry work gloves
to drag the famous corpse/trope to the shoulder
of yet another North American poem, or returning
in them and an old jacket find only smears
of snot and blood on the asphalt? Who’d get lucky
in the interim, tossing the venison into their pulled-over
pickup? Not us. First time walking the land we’d asked
the realtor (of all people) re the pressed moss hollows
below the bluff (she) do deer sleep here? And
(me) would these be good places
for the well?
It’s aquifer, not ground
water, drilled to through granite you want
with the head near the house... The springy
(still hanging) first question’s still dreaming
still pressing dimensions of presence, succulent
destinations: sapling in the pre-dawn, patio shade
under climber roses, caged peas. Statuesque, testing
the breeze up the driveway, or in the orchard a
low-limbed leaf-cluster in a fore-limbed
up-pawing hoof-scrabble and stretch, it listens.