Believe me when I tell you the buck that came to nap
in my yard yesterday came with intention. I eased
myself into my chair as he raised his head
to sniff the air then turn to regard me. He lay
half reposed with his legs folded under him, the light
dappled and the air still. Sometimes he’d nuzzle
his yearling antlers against the grass. I wanted
to go to him, to rub the velvet knobs
between my fingers like I rubbed my blanket
as a child. Some urges never leave. I told him
There are those who want both of us dead
but he just flicked his tail, the all clear sign.
I have to say it, his eyes seemed to smile:
I’m resting. How soft the grass. Look at us, alive.

This time God threw my soul
into the canopy of firs and cedars
where it lit on a branch, a winged thing.
And I, terrified of heights, marveled
at my ease when I realized
I was outside my body and in
some upper reaches. When I woke,
for several seconds I didn’t know
where I was in space
or why when cast upward
I forgot as soon as I took flight
to look and see by whose hand
I had been flung.