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Deer Hunt
Each print, a deep, cobalt pointing
ahead like a doubled needle on a white compass.
See how they sink so firmly, sure of the grass
beneath the snow if nothing else, anointing
the air with fear, their beautiful coats out of Dürer,
and muzzles dipped in glossy India ink.
In their eyes, a vestige of a thought they cannot think.
Quivering, they feel it closing in from those pure
slopes they fled. Here they mill and bed
by night in scattered thickets, turning and murmuring
near the frozen stream. They've heard the hills condemn
their steaming breath and in the frail light, dread
like a pointed stick prods them on—that thundering
in the distance with which the forest turned on them.
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