In the thicket just west of my shack,
under the heaviest of canopied pines,
every day, all winter long, two does recline
and rest, and sometimes when I look
from the window their eyes are closed,
but still they go on chewing whatever
snowbound vegetation they've uncovered—
or just their sad, inadequate cuds, I suppose.
As I suppose my daily apple also
is due to them. I've been a little slow to learn
not to throw the core and make them run,
but to toss it gently between us, like so.
