Lottery

Now is the hour of the deer.

The trees unfold twilight fingers

towing the stags, the young bucks,

the does, and the yearlings

from their woodland wallows.

Leaving fawns tucked

into tall grasses or leafy nests,

warily they tiptoe into stubbled fields

marveling at the charity

(and inefficiency) of farmers

after harvest.

The moon peeks slyly through night clouds,

leading the search for autumn gardens,

wildflowers and the sweetest blades

that thrive in the runoff at the side of the road.

Following faint hoof prints of predecessors,

they emerge from the trees, glide over fences,

drop into ditches and climb embankments to graze,

or to face the headlights

and, startled, leap to their fate.

Sybilla

10/20/11