Posts Tagged doe

Dear to us.


The needle artist changes, now and then,
from inking shoulders and haunches
and text on ribs,
to cotton floss on fabric,
achieves an accidental harmony with oil and ceramic
at the destination.

If there are accidents.

Seven altogether,
but they tuck beside behind each other,
under the hornbeam
testing the english ivy for fodder,
both of the single mothers, as it were,
with the twins and their mother.

Absent from our local herd today, only the buck,
who’s never far but rarely in frame with the rest,
most of whom probably are his progeny.

They are too unafraid of us,
their primary predator,
because we strew cracked corn on the grass,
their primary benefactors,
though it is intended for the five blue-black crows

who do not trust us
because they have not forgotten my bb gun
from 60 years ago
and they do not forgive.

But they’ll eat the corn.

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Transition signs.

Through shot.


Thirteen bales, first cut in June, just three in September
after one of the driest summers on record, our record.
There was areal rain that kept sliding by.


The garden slows, but is not done.


A visit from Esmerelda and the twins


bulking up.

For winter is coming.

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Fauna & fungi, living easy.

Not much, but the bit of rain,
got the suspended droplets and the light just right,


shined up the ornament in the grass,
of cloudy crystal quartz,


and awakened the giants underground,

to upthrust their sort-of flowers here and there,

sharing sometimes with a bird

some seeming prematurely aged,

scarlet and stark whites,

with accidental happy faces,

and with delicious detail.

While, on a different scale, walking on the grass,
the lone doe, Bones, feasts warily on bird-scattered seeds.

Later, down the lawn, shy Esmeralda and her still-spotted twins
from a finch eye view.

After nightfall, on the counter, yes, katydid,
she thought my camera might be a snack.

Outside, the affable ongoing everyday pillage of the feeders.

Our neighbor was sure he saw a bear’s butt slip into the brush
about halfway between our house and his,
a little fellow, 150 pounds max.

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Snakes in the grass, alas.

We call them our yardvarks,
IMG_20150801_152354557_HDRthe creatures who emerge
IMG_20150802_203605920from the woods
IMG_20150802_203558629to share
IMG_20150802_200452158and the cracked corn
IMG_20150802_200444349we put out for wild birdsIMG_20150718_235737836_TOP

if the bandits haven’t cleared it all.

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