Deer Hunt

Each print, a deep, cobalt pointing
ahead like a doubled needle on a white compass.
See how they sink so firmly, sure of the grass
beneath the snow if nothing else, anointing

the air with fear, their beautiful coats out of Dürer,
and muzzles dipped in glossy India ink.
In their eyes, a vestige of a thought they cannot think.
Quivering, they feel it closing in from those purer

slopes they fled. Here they mill and bed
by night in scattered thickets, turning and murmuring
near the frozen stream. They've heard the hills condemn

their steaming breath and in the frail light, dread
like a pointed stick prods them on—that thundering
in the distance with which the forest turned on them.

Copyright © 2005 K. E. Duffin All rights reserved
from King Vulture
The University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission