Two Does

by Robert Fillman

Two does cross the mountain road,
their surefooted staccato strides, hooves
on potholed pavement, hips in and out
of joint, round bulging stones. One
by one, their prints stitch the snow-dusted
ground, perforating the hoary gravel.
They walk in unison, ambling slow,
their globe shrunken to wet macadam cinders
in woods under glass. I watch from the car
as a spray of leaves betrays them, causes one
to swivel. Frost frames the whole of it.
Tail up, she looks. In long leaps they spill
together down the hill through lines of ticking
pine until composed, and mist makes them shadow.


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