My wary friends the seven does
bound tails high across our path
across the fence lines and fields
crossing to the year-round creek,
the last doe spins back to the trees.
Returning, I pass below her on the hill.
She eyes me dubiously as I call
“Good morning, pretty lady!”
Over my shoulder I can see she’s gone
back to grazing - probably my words
are nothing more to her than noise,
less than a marmot’s call
less than a nuthatch’s beeping.