Survivor
       

The doe browses in the open
between the giant pine and kitchen window
where I crouch,
half-can1ouflaged,
trying not to startle her.

She twitches slightly, small attentive head
registering scent,
flurry of a leaf—

sunlight blanketing her flanks,
hollow as a refugee's.

She has endured winter's
              slow
                      encroachment;

footfall after footfall of unending snow.

I cannot know her life, its wild economy;

only watch her half-relaxed,
between sentience and threat,
myrtle dripping from her mouth.

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Copyright © 2018 Nellie Goodwin All rights reserved
from The White Birch Underwater
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission