Snowfall angled and heavy against the road
drives relentlessly in the fields along the house,
piling up all around Winter’s contours, paths.
The deer have returned in the storm, searching
fields for food, tender shoots just beneath the surface
in hardened earth, snouts damp with seeking.
Is it the wanting that makes them return to the cold earth?
These several deer gathered here, doing deer things,
animals, instinctive, certain their hunger is what’s real,
truth in this moment now, the present, a gift.
What is it that coaxes shoots from their slumber come Spring?
A quickening faith perhaps, suggests survival
is possible, even likely, might just lead their green crowns
to burst against the ground’s frosted underbelly.
More likely, deer move on, rummaging, pressing on toward Summer
storm’s edge, where foraging makes for easier work, the answers
we often look for under every Fall leaf, each stone, every fresh
green blade of grass, in the glitter of a perfect snowflake.