Deer

TRAVIS TRUAX

Quiet whitetails
never breaking a branch,
they blazed the trails
behind our house,
split the thick brush
around the pond.

We saw them
in the mornings,
with dew-damp legs,
moving through the fog.
Sometimes at dusk
they’d walk across
our drive, my mother
pointing to the fawn.

Their stories must have
all been simple,
their bones light as air,
brought to life in a forest hum,
returning to earth:
someday a hip bone
or leg brushed beneath
the leaves.