In Kortright Park, two white tailed deer leap through grass frost.

What do they eat in the winter? you ask.

Why is it so hard to know what you want?

What makes darkness, light? I say.

What makes hunger, thirst?

Is there anything dark and sweet as your mouth?

I’m tree-like. In this world, there is music quieter than air.

You are constellation. Each day you leap into dark.

Do you think of cave paintings left by ancient hunters,

thoughts of buds on alderbanks of frozen creeks?

Yes, I think of deer vanishing into islands they breathe.