The Stag at Eve

In my cries I don’t cease (some dumb bird)

when from the swinging trees a stag at eve

comes prancing, body dappled by the shadows

of dripping leaves. It’s fall, after all, when

the land undoes its lingerie laces

and stands naked for the dark wood, balding

plains, for parking lots slick with strange water,

for hills growing lush in emptiness

and into this scene enters the stag, moon lunate

and swinging on a tether of leather

scored then cured, from one just like him a year

earlier. Some dumb bird, I bid him hello

and goodbye in a shriek so lusty he

turns his expensive head just to curse me.