Deer Season

By Denise Low

In an unmown yard of dry grass, I miss

the deer themselves, but instead find tamped

outline of their bodies and inhale their faint

aroma. I see that secret bower where they press

together all night and breathe. Moonlight speckles

their hides. By sunrise, like stars, they disappear.

But since they are shamans, their spirits remain:

Bent straw delineates glyphs – epic stories

as they step backwards into my memory.