by Ethel Mortenson Davis
You came to the edge of the woods today
to catch my eye.
My dog did not see you, though,
young girl-deer.
You came to tell me “thank you,”
or so it seemed that way,
for digging you out of the mud yesterday.
Flailing, you were caught up to your neck.
My dog and I saw you
throwing your head from side to side, exhausted—
on our walk in the rain-soaked morning.
Two came to dig you out,
and, after resting, you got up
and ran away.
So today you came back with gratitude,
or your face looked that way—
like my long lost daughter.
You came to make me understand
that you were full of thankfulness,
to catch my eye,
or so it seemed that way.
Copyright © 2010, I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico
