Golden Winter Morning

Golden Winter Morning


The first day of winter follows

the longest night

Up early, before the sun, warming

days forecast, enough to melt

a week’s snow.

Deer active, plow through the white cover to reach

green clover below. As I plow piles, make a path

so the smiling mail lady can reach the box in

her Jeep.

She brings cards of the season. Some with decorated trees,

Angels, snowy wood, the Magi. Some have deer who stand and

stare from a winter field.

Like the one who watches me.

Twenty Does


My back aches from sitting so still

on a cold chair, hidden

on a hay wagon , inside

a makeshift hut.

Time to think, time

to squirm, rub my hands

together. Time to

wait for the majestic buck I have seen

on a camera, at midnight. Six tall points, rise

to the sky like pinnacles. An enviable prize, yet

perhaps I will not pull the trigger should he come by.

He will not show in daylight, so why worry? Why stress

over an event that will not occur?



Evening comes gently, a shadow slowly creeping through

stands of trees. Shapes appear at the edge

of a far field. Four, then suddenly a few more, in groups, scattered yet

together. A herd, and the darkness grows and I cannot distinguish

except for size. Yearlings still play around mother’s feet. A large doe

leads the way, closer, slow and closer, the deer browse.   I watch,

suspended and tense, and make no sound, and disguise any movement.  I swing

a scoped barrel from doe to doe.   I count twenty gentle creatures

without horns, who munch serenely on alfalfa.  Spread out on the pasture

before me as if attending a party, talking in groups, enjoying the buffet.