Out, among gray and cloud-spliced
verities, beige and stubbled hollow stalks,
a doe held her place on the rise.
And I, slippered and robed,
gathered the costs of my comforts –
the papers and pages of heat
from a white and resin box.
She tasted the air of me,
upwind of her, and the twin steams
of her core beat out, split the chill –
pulsed and sinuous.
Her black eyes unmoved,
she stroked the ground once
with a forefoot and her left ear
funneled toward me, unimpressed.
For, it is winter now and what hides
beyond the rise, before the snows
and thin forage, is for her to know,
not I, for I am not that dear.