My yard is a cluster of crabgrass, beneath the budding trees.
The sun is a silent stalker, peering through the cloud-tossed breeze.
I’m slowly surveying my yard, carrying camera in hand,
seeking to scout out some subject--searching as fast as I can.
I’ve been avoiding the virus, wrapped in my robe and my gown.
Venturing out might mean danger, for flu is lurking around.
My camera’s loaded and ready. I’m sure there’s something to take.
I’ll sneak around to the side yard, and see if I’ll snag a break.
Ah-hah, I see my subject, and I’m certain he sees me too.
If this shot is sharply focused, it seems my search may be through.
If the fawn had seen me sooner, he would have sped out of sight.
Now I must summon my muse, My mission is something to write.
Deer are beautiful creatures. The spots, on this one, mean he’s young.
Maybe, he wandered away from the herd he travels among.
They look like gentle grazers, but the ones from the woods are wild.
If you look, you’ll see them lurking in spots where downed trees are piled.
They like to nosh on my hosta: this must be a tasty treat.
The forest is full of foliage, so there’s plenty else to eat.
It’s foolish to grow a garden, unless you build a firm fence.
It’s no use knocking their nature; that wouldn’t make any sense.
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