The oaks are giant wolves with silent howls
To guard the wind tunnels lapping from shore.
In this light the deer move like emus
Until their heads buck up, to disappear,
For that's what deer do, the way they balance
The urge to be gentle with the desire
For grass, for fear, the out-breath of light,
To be balanced with love, the light reabsorbed
As if no more. She feeds on an endless world
And gives back a sly nod of gratitude
To the hunters in their red suits. With enough
Gratitude, the forest will encircle her
Living eyes in protection once more.
The sun goes down with purifying fire
To call the hillsides into focus, what
They are: pure service, pure pursuit of truth
And beauty, one blinding light, and the
Textures of experience in its dust
Existing as gratitude for itself.
Even the deer are called by the light:
Luminous eyes, soft white fur, the only
Things that survive this sharp of a focus —
A glare that impresses even the crows.
