It's that time of day
when I climb the hill
to hold the sun a moment
longer but caught instead
at my desk I get up
to stretch and see, there

in the shadows of my yard,
a doe and her yearling,
his immature antlers aglow
with the last light.
He darts into the holly
where two fawns fearlessly
nibble a burning bush.

The room shifts to dark
behind me and the doe, alert,
raises on hoof, her skin
taut over sculpting of muscles
and bronzed with attention.

Barely able to breathe, I
sidle to the window. She

gestures to stamp but halts
an inch from the ground
and becomes quicksilver.
Which of us will move?

I shift my weight only
a whisper but the hoof
drops and four white tails,
like ceremonial prayer flags,
trace arcs into the gloaming.

From Where There is No Night (Finishing Line Press, 2004).
Used with the author's permission.