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This is the way we live:
we wake to news; flags
hang in ranks on screen.
We hear hunters' rifles.
Even at dawn we know
what counts. This windless
morning leaves do not
tremble, as though even
day holds its breath.
These woods are no
wilderness. Deer shelter
then come to our yard
to eat fallen apples as all
through brazen summer
they claimed our garden.
They leap onto roads.
We'll likely pass a fallen
deer, its long-lashed
eyes wide and blind, then
go on home, to sit, caught
by more grim news.
© 2004 Miriam N. Kotzin
"Buck Season" was published in The Vocabula Review, March 2004
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