WITH MY DOG
by Harry Hunter, © 2009
Image c/o Free Walpapers, UK.
Last Leap
Anguished Emily Dickinson observed,
“A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—
I’ve heard the Hunter tell—“ (# 165),
But today my dog jumped a deer—
A well-antlered whitetail buck—
That could not leap high at all
For the tangle of vines he bounced against,
Like a bird trapped under a net.
Then the vines clutched one hind leg
As the buck finally fought free,
Ran right past me and leaped a brook,
But did not get away.
Nature is not only wonderful but wild—
Thoreau once felt he could eat a woodchuck raw—
And no one taught that dog how to kill
Nor the buck how to bleat like a sheep in distress.
After pulling off my dog, I spoke to the deer,
Who raised his fine head to look at me
And blinked his eyes understandingly
But did not get up.
Next time we go for a winter walk,
I hope we don’t find the little buck’s bones.
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