The Yearling

REMINISCENT of deer, the pale white yearling poised
Out of a corner of mist. There in the pasture,
Early as dawn, her polished feet had noised
Around the repute of her miniature disaster.
Stones were not fired by the loping heifer-thrust
Of legs as slim as willow when the branches fell
From the honey-locust tree, though as heifers must
She ran from the young pricked hide, fled from the
warm blood-smell.
The watering place held the thickest mist, of her manor,
An excellent place for her hiding. Reluctant dark,
Though, made her flee where the first faint light might fan her.
And the wood between suffered her bright foot-mark.
Out of a corner of mist, on a knoll less dark than she,
The pale white yearling scotched her hooves with flint,
Poised in her question, unaware of me,
Asking the highest acre what the stinging bough
had meant.