Tracks

Tracks

Over the fence

a quarter mile from my door,

deer,

pressed hard down to the ground

in a slow walk through

last night's snow and then

frantic

long streaks dragged

to a quick point before the

leap

the run

criss-crossed with heavy

deliberate boot soles

Beyond that, pressed flat

and trampled

the orange and red

of the kill

snow, packed and smeared

into a trail

uncovering rocks, branches

and the still green shoots

of grass

Another snow and this story

will dissolve

into a fresh page

the night scavenger

will leave his dog prints sniffing

out, devouring

what was left

and crying at dusk

On the fence

a tuft of fur

is snagged and hanging

on a barb