Kevin Cole

Perhaps to those familiar with their ways The sight would not have been so startling: A deer fording the Missouri in the early afternoon. Perhaps they would not have worried as much As I about the fragility of it all: Her agonizingly slow pace, the tender ears And beatific face just above the water. At one point she hit upon a shoal And appeared to walk upon a mantle, The light glancing off her thin legs and black hooves. I thought she might pause for a while to rest, To gain some bearings, but instead she bound Back in, mindful I suppose Of the vulnerability of open water. When she finally reached the island And leapt into dark stands Of cottonwoods and Russian olives, I swear I almost fell down in prayer. And now I long to bear witness of such things, To tell someone in need the story Of a deer fording the Missouri in the early afternoon.

The Audubon warblers keep the time of their coming, Arriving on stillness of a storm, Their breast and backs as dark as low bruised banks of cloud, Rumps and throats as yellow as blooms of buckwheat. They throng this evening in the newly-leaved Tender-tipped canopies nervously weaving Through the catkins like frantic prophets Bearing some divine prophecy of the coming spring. I wait, hoping for nothing too grave: News of ruinous lands, of cutting and swarming locusts, Of withering vines and empty granaries, Of fasting, weeping, and rending of garments. No, I wait for lighter fare: Perhaps a promise that the green heron will nest On the west end of the slough and that the ironweed And wood lily will once again together bloom. This would be an ample prophecy for another year— This and a promise to keep the time of their coming.