I thought for minute
that all the deer have gone,
that the sacred herd
had taken up their carpet bags
and caught the last train home

somewhere away from
the sprawl industrial parks
And highways lined with cement walls
stacked two stories tall,
and garage doors that open and close
with the click of a button.

My garden still has two toed tracks
and piles of little round droppings
that melt on the rain.
There are nibbles of parsley left
but no one bothers the oregano.

It hasn’t rained for a week
and the deer trail is dry and empty.
The family of 5 that tromps
through the yard is absent.

Perhaps they told the doctor
how depressed they were
before making a meal
of uninsulated power
lines laid out in plats
by the surveyors and workmen
as they dug our new foundation.