Anything can cut through
and here it is:
the sharp clip, clip of a deer’s blunt teeth
cutting thoughtfully through blades of grass;
clips of time snipped from the past
and future; a present
for me to forget.
A car comes round the bend with headlights
like blind eyes; someone shouts fuck you,
to me or to the deer, I don’t know.
And it’s alright. It’s fine!
You might say that it ruined the moment
but that wouldn’t be true;
each moment is its own, is born
and dies pure as awareness strikes—like lightning,
or like stinging nettles nestled in the forest floor,
or like cold water rolling over smooth stones—
it is all right
as the deer’s hooves scrape softly
over old asphalt,
I can see life in the circle of her eye.