A Nimble Deer
A doe that was, only a minute
before, quietly munching, leaps over
a wooden fence, nimble
as a goat. She rears up, after reaching
the other side, like a trick dog —
her front hooves dangling from her
useless forelegs, her hind legs
absorbing all the weight. She cranes
her soft, brown neck just far
enough to reach the succulent leaves
of a dogwood tree. But the younger
deer — smaller, less sure —
stick to low-hanging branches,
their tails flicking like little propellers
that fail to lift them from the earth.
– Terri Kirby Erickson
