Twice this morning, I’ve gone out to do something near the garden and realized the young doe was there. I think she’s one of last year’s fawns, maybe even one of these, who visited regularly, grazing on dandelions and sweet white clover.
Our encounters leave me full, somehow. As though poetry is close enough to touch in the golden air.
See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
See, they return, one, and by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind,
and half turn back;
These were the “Wing’d-with-Awe,”
–from “The Return”, Ezra Pound