The Deer

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There is little sound, only the gulls’ 
Sailing song, way off, and the gush 
On the grass more muted now and slow. 

Sodden grass below spiked shafts 
Absorbs him, and giddy, yellow day 
Watches brightly as he hangs draining there. 

Moments ago he fled, elegant in the trees, 
Then veered down the lawn fast and free 
To the gleam of the fence, the catapult; 

The flawless fall, full of the long, knowing 
Body twisting and driving toward steel, 
Then golden and burst like a fruit in the sun. 

Now hunters push into the slain silence, 
Stopping in slow wonder at the rattle, 
The bone-on-bone of his breaking breath. 

Throbbing still, he shudders once as if 
The captive coat could throw off pain; 
Then stretched on the fence he comes to his 

Determined dying, while high in the trees 
The sound of the wind begins and balsam boughs 
Blow in the face of the sun.