This, from the second section of David Baker’s poem “Late Pastoral,” in Midwest Eclogue:
2.
And of that sound,
what can I tell you? -
lingering deep
as a bear’s, drawn up from the gut, chest
.
broadened until her breath blows out
with great force, plosive
at the nose.
The sound’s like the swumpp of snow sliding
.
off the eaves, inevitable action-at-
a-distance
of gravity
from spring’s slow melt.
….
My hunter neighbor says
the sound is a feature
of wilder
deer. Not those accustomed to our houses and smell,
.
our noise, who sift softly among
trash cans and orchards
and flee
before we know they’re among us.
.
It’s another rainy day here, and I’m finding Baker’s deer oddly comforting.
