WORDS • IDEAS: KATHLEEN TIGHE
Morning Rain The dog has stopped suddenly Eyes frozen, intent, Every muscle coiled, ready to spring. "What is it?" I ask. I scan the swaying grasses, the whispering trees, the dune sloping to the lake's edge. Then I see: Two fawns faltering, stumbling along Just behind a doe nibbling leaves as she picks a path among the poplars. Rain falls softly, a gentle tapping on the leaves underfoot And a drip, drip, dripping all around, From the edge of my slicker's hood, Even off the end of my nose, Blurring the bright green of the woods. But it is early morning And birds are calling, A red-winged blackbird, the scarlet flash of a cardinal, And a mourning dove coos, lamenting the absence of sun. The dog whuffs, her excitement hardly contained. "Shhh," I say. They are nearly concealed By the tall grass Almost hidden, but not quite, Their dappled spots too bright against reddish umber coats Even in this dull light And a white flash of their little tails As they mimic the warning from their mother
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