Epiphany 7

Bart Gage in Writing Seminar

How do you describe a deer?
All the words seem tired and trite.
What do you say to catch the bounce and stretch as my morning visitor
two-stepped from my driveway over the lot-line fence?
What metaphor describes the pause, half-turn and sentry eye?
How right the solid body over against the rocks and trees. How perfect
the thin legs among the out-croppings and saplings. Against the dappled-snowed lot, the full-coated denizen looked warm in a sartorially
fine pelted tan.
Still. Quiet. Breathing. Watchful - my early morning scout waited.
One leg beginning its arch. Gradually reaching up and out.
Then gone.
Abandoned shrubs and lone trees - swaying slightly against the early Westerly wind.
Were there others waiting, watching, poised? Any signs I missed? Any tracks obvious to the canny word-obsessed observer? No. Not to me.
Nor to Ben, who sat on the stoop with the New York Times in his jaws, waiting for breakfast.