ARMISTICE
All year long the deer evade us:
Blurry twilight bounds at the end
Of the path as the shepherd tugs at his leash,
Shadows at dawn by the pond’s outlet.
On snowshoes we cross so many tracks
Up to the meadow and down to the brook,
Briarpatch beds and mounds of pellets:
A phantom herd inhabits our acres.
This September Sunday we turn
Into the gravel drive and meet
A pair of whitetails grazing like calves,
Unhurriedly waving their flags in farewell.
An air of Glasnost has prevailed
Since the dog retired to New Hampshire.
Woodchucks browse on lettuce and beans.
A great blue heron steps high in the shallows.
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