At dusk, five does munch on meager greenery.
I snap a picture through the dining room window.
One raises her head and stares in my direction.
Arrowheads and skinning tools point
to five thousand years of awe –
beauty and grace, providing, before colonials,
clothing, housing, and sustenance.
When shown the picture on my cell phone,
a Christmas Eve guest asked,
“They come this close to the house?”
“O, yes, at least once a week.
This was taken just yesterday.”
Truth is they never really leave.
I merely spy and momentarily gaze.
They incarnate the land and forest.
Holidays are not theirs.
I live near the James River and have published a book of poetry, Nostalgia Resides in the Marrow.