Driving home from town with supplies to see us through
The next few weeks, I come to our ranch, where the grass
Is coming on nicely—spring green, lush, at least in appearance.
I've let the field rest, stockpiling the grass for spring turn-out.
It's late afternoon, dusk. The deer have begun drifting
From the timber to the fields, as they do daily.
They hear the truck, raise their heads, pause in their grazing.
Though intended for cattle, the grass serves the deer as well,
And as I drive past with my own stockpile of food
In the back of the truck, my hands well sanitized,
My psyche hoping that that elderly woman I helped
Reach the frozen broccoli wasn't gifting me the virus—
One of the deer turns and looks directly at me, and I swear
She winks, and nods her head. Likely a trick of my imagination.
Poetry by jim
Read 109 times
Written on 2020-03-18 at 02:05
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