MONDAY'S POET
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Whitetails                                                
The deer appeared in the lower paddock.                       
Fourteen in all, a herd, white tails held high                        
against the melting snow.                                                   
Even the crows are silent,                                                
for a moment.                                                                  
My daughter and I inch forward,                                     
unbreathing.                                                                    
But still they start                                                            
And bound smartly over our fence                                   
and our neighbors',                                                        
effortlessly flying through the air,                                     
one after the other.                                                          
The smallest seemed lost for a moment, unsure of herself, 
wandering back and forth along the fence                         
as her world leapt away.                                               
She disappeared behind a tree                                        
and flew to join the others.                                              
Our horses whinnied                                                      
and returned to their hay.                                             
Eugene J. Fisher

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