December 11, 2012
It steps onto the path fifty feet from me,
My fourth and last traverse of the circle trail,
And I dead-stop,
The six point buck now facing me,
This alpha deer with no intention of running;
We lock eyes, my breaths quick, my body soaked with sweat
From four ascents of Heartbreak Hill;
The buck does not blink,
Its thick haunches swathed in dark fir;
Its majesty and fearless gaze is thaumaturgical—to me—
(“It’s just a deer,” I imagine unromantic friends saying, “ubiquitous, man.”)
To me, this day, after seeing a barred owl, a red-tail hawk, a red fox,
This encounter is a portent;
An ancient Indian would have interpreted all these as signs;
Brother Buck tired of me and walked south through the oaks,
Slow, as if to say, You are insignificant;
It didn’t know Man—Man’s inclinations for conquering,
For culling, for shooting, for trespassing, for selfishness;
This day belongs to the buck, not thinking of the future,
Alive and proud and haughty, sensuous and sentient.
