Crouched behind a bush,
The twigs scratch at my fair skin,
But I dare not move,
I await a sign of movement,
One that could appear right now, or now
Whenever it chooses to appear,
I will wait, be right here.

Then, some sticks crack
And I snap up my head, straighten my back.
Out walks a doe, into the clearing
And I notice the color of her felt, as she is nearing.
The spots on her back, trace a pattern
Much like the rings of Saturn,
Separating her from the others,
She walks alone, without the family smothers

My gun is at the ready,
My arm light and steady,
As I quietly bring the eyepiece to my face
I fix the doe in my view, not wanting a chase
Then I see,
What this doe really wants to be,
Without her herd,
She no longer needs to be obscured.

She dances in the sun,
Talks with the birds, sings to the trees,
Whatever she really wants to be
Then she freezes,
And her soft, white tail seizes
She quietly walks over to my bush
And looks at me
Just stands there and stares,
At my camouflaged face beneath the tree

The marvel in her eyes
Is unexplainable
Like she’s never seen anything
Like me before
We stay like that,
Forever it seems
Nothing this spectacular has ever happened
To me, not even in my dreams
Then she leaves, and to this day,
I hope that she is ok.

The Delicate Doe

This is a poem about a Doe who is spotted by a hunter, but the hunter watches as the Doe acts as the Doe she wishes she could be. The hunter lets her go and hopes for the good health of The Delicate Doe.