Will I see you again, Piebald Doe?


More than a morning stroll
after dawn, a doe quartet
hustles off the hill
across the dirt drive
emerging from behind
lacy half-leaved
wild rose clumps,
tiptoeing on splintered light
three so common
they barely catch the eye,
the other, winter white,
dazzles in her sepia surround,
white as though
snow on her hide
had never melted
in these April winds,
her tawny spots
indistinct as her now shapeless breaths,
ears slack, dreamy eyes searching
for new shoots and sweet bark, but briefly,
with a step forward
the rest follow
over the threshold
into the woods and out of sight,
her vulnerability
our common fear.
 
By Joyce Joslin Lorenson