In deer season

grape tendril 1

Fog until 9 a.m.
Sitting in their trees,
the hunters hear
every drip.

A silent crow flies past,
something dangling from its beak.

Water beads
on the coiled tendrils
of wild grapes.

Unmistakable, the sound of hooves
on wet leaves — until it stops.

The fog thins.
A pair of does stand frozen,
raising & lowering the white
alarms of their tails.

grape tendril 2

15 Replies to “In deer season”

  1. The poem and photos are much appreciated and admired, and thanks for the link to Lori’s Curriculum photo. I sense a ‘net potentiation effect here; I see these photos and they make me want to go out and seek evocative images of my own.

  2. Thanks for the comments.

    I see these photos and they make me want to go out and seek evocative images of my own.

    Great! I’ll look forward to seeing what you come up with.

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