The dear, black and white dog sees the ball,

chases the ball,

all it sees is the ball, and

it does not see the deer, and

for that I am grateful.

For the two deer,

ghosting spirit-like through lovely trees

in this ordinary urban park.

For the dog still by my side,

not disappearing after bobbing white rumps.

I am grateful for it all.

 

Two minutes and two hundred yards later,

in the same park, just down the slope,

a woman swigging a drink,

a bottle of spirits,

brandy I think.

Half-gone, like her.

 

The spirit of deer

and an old dear full of spirits.

What are you doing here, deer?

What are you doing here, dear?