The Deer

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You never know.

The body of night opens

like a river, it drifts upward like white smoke,

like so many wrappings of mist.

And on the hillside two deer are walking along

just as though this wasn't

the owned, tilled earth of today

but the past.

I did not see them the next day, or the next,

but in my mind's eye -

there they are, in the long grass,

like two sisters.

This is the earnest work. Each of us is given

only so many mornings to do it -

to look around and love

the oily fur of our lives,

the hoof and the grass-stained muzzle.

Days I don't do this

I feel the terror of idleness,

like a red thirst.

Death isn't just an idea.

When we die the body breaks open

like a river;

the old body goes on, climbing the hill.

–Mary Oliver

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