Deer Stolen

Deer Stolen

Deer have stood around our house
at night so still nobody knew,
and waiting with ears baling air.
I hunt the still deer everywhere,

for what they heard and took away,
stepping through the chapparal,
was the sound of Then; now it's Now,
and those small deer far in the wild

are whispers of our former life.
The last print of some small deer's foot
might hold the way, might be a start
that means in ways beyond our ken

important things. I follow them
through all the hush of long ago
to listen for what small deer know.


~ William Stafford ~

(from Someday, Maybe)