This morning's run
thumped me through mists
and rain-run mud,
past farmer Brud's farm
where filing up the bank
of the road came goat
after goat, a flock of floppy-eared
cloven-toed creatures, a herd
of sweet-clover-mouths
out for early jaunt unfenced
and free as the frogs out on such
a moist morning. One fellow
bleated at me and pranced on his
neat toes to my fingers,
a bottle baby seeking esteem
and wither-scratches.
Tonight's drive sighted
me in evening fog with rainy drops
against my wipers, night just
placing its wrappers wetly around
my town in a way that makes
me fear mildew. A shapely blob
on twiggy legs morphed from pavement
dank as my foot clutched the brake
tightly, shifting all sights to
the deer frozen in the lights
and clearly undecided until
I was too close for breathing,
diving in front of me before
I was fully stopped--
metal and hide finding
their acquaintance hindered
by ten cloven feet.
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