I know the difference between people and deer, he grunts,
as he strings his bow and slams shut
the hatchback. Dusk:
the pines by pond lane
line up like lineage, each reaches
to block brothers, sisters from sun, or offer shade. I shift
to scan the next row, scout its distinct
vista, assess limbs and cones, check underfoot
for salamanders, copperheads — destiny,
when we can recognize its breastbone, its spine,
is a walk between trees.
I sight a fawn,
tiptoeing wide-eyed, ears erect
as I blend with bark. What is the difference?
Like a shot— biker:
skinny pants and helmet,
vying to pass or mow me down— should I too
be pedaling? My fawn disappears. All of our span
we wander rows of pine,
questing for a better view—
there are so many days
when up and down the chain it’s open season,
all we can do is wear orange.
Wendy Elizabeth Ingersoll is a retired piano teacher who loves nothing more than good times with grandchildren, leisurely adventures with her husband, long afternoons of revising poetry, and Tai Chi. Publications include her book Grace Only Follows, which won the National Federation of Press Women Contest; two chapbooks; poems in Poetry East, Naugatuck River Review, Connecticut River Review, Passager, Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, Mojave River Review, Worcester Review, and Hartskill Review. She also enjoys serving as reader for The Delmarva Review.