Where the fence ends, a doe with her yearlings and fawns cross into my yard, over the crusted snow. Inside, I grab my camera. The doe looks at me, ears to the side, turning, listening. She stamps, huffs air and flags. Then leaping, they all disappear, leaving photos of brown blur.
I learn to be still; to wait by the window.
If they notice me now, I think they must know: I mean no harm, so they continue browsing, crab-apple, cedar, needles of yew. But, as I see their dark eyes seeing me, I feel such longing to escape this barrier of window and walls, to burst outside, breathe winter air, and run where the fence ends.
Photos and words are copyright 2011-2014 Carol Steel
