by Gloria Viglione

Down the hill
past the footbridge
and old willow trunk

lies a meadow,
rich in August bees
and grasshoppers,
busy for the noon sun.

Just over there
I saw them, or rather,
saw tips of ears, five pairs in all,
cresting above waist-high
grasses, perfectly still.

The smallest of them rose first–
seemingly, quiveringly,
on the horizontal, on the vertical too–
a speckled fawn
moving this way and that,
hardly touching down,
springing lithely into the air,
toward, then away,

and at once
they were all on their feet,
tails bobbing like small white sailboats
floating along a sea of green.


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