by Mary Eliza Crane
Early morning wrapped in woven wool
white breath dissolving into fog,
one fawn lay supine near my feet
sweet docile sister grazing in the weeds.
Mother doe caught and held my gaze,
but bored by lack of threat
she faded back away into the fog
my steaming teacup met, eyes drawn upward
sunbeams crown a cottonwood
that cast one patch of light
on the first golden leaves drifting down.
Teacup empty, hot oats and milk consumed,
sky deep Nordic blue from a lover's eye,
on the smallest branch atop the tallest fir
black headed cinnamon breasted
grosbeaks flock and call.
They take the best sun, and cast no shadow.
Unlike us, they leave some for tomorrow.
(First publication Quill and Parchment, Nov. 2012)
Photos courtesy of Linda Tanner/Flickr