In those days when I first returned, I startled easily,
edgy like a doe in hard winter. Searching, grasping
at grass, twigs, branches, crashing through timber,
bedding down hungry. But nothing could fill me.
I ran deep into the woods, up hills, down ravines,
into the creek bed. I broke through the ice one morning
just as dawn broke on the horizon and the sun stopped
me in my tracks and I heard a voice that said
do not be afraid to look into the light.
Today I walked along a winter path, sun exploding
in the bluest sky, clouds streaking on the horizon,
loopy calligraphy scrawls in long stips, creek running
and rays shining, ripples dancing like tipsy ballerinas.
My eye caught on a branch in the stream, but it was a doe,
a small one, standing dead still, legs and lower body
submerged in the stream, a gray statue camouflaged
in the dark water.
I heard a splash and turned and saw a coyote bounding
through the icy current. He leapt up the bank, shook
violently, threw his head back and howled.
Two coyotes emerged from the dry prairie grass
and goldenrod, and the three ran, as if carried by a current,
across the snowy bottomland and into the woods.
When I looked again, the doe was gone and sun
beams exploded in stars on the stream, blinding me.
I did not know which way to go and the morning
said do not be afraid. Do not be afraid
to look directly into the light.
