In an unmown yard of dry grass, I missthe deer themselves, but instead find tamped
outline of their bodies and inhale their faint
aroma. I see that secret bower where they press
together all night and breathe. Moonlight speckles
their hides. By sunrise, like stars, they disappear.
But since they are shamans, their spirits remain:
Bent straw delineates glyphs—epic stories
as they step backwards into my memory.
Denise Low
Solstice 2007
Also, see other holiday verse in the Dec. 22 Kansas City Star, with illustration by Gentry Mullen:
