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.