This morning,

two deer,

in the pine woods,

in the five a.m. mist,

in a silky agitation,

went leaping

down into the shadows

of the bog

and together

across the bog

and up the hill

and into the dense trees--

but once,

years ago,

in some kind of rapturous mistake,

the deer did not run away

but walked toward me,

and touched my hands--

and i have been, ever since,

separated from my old, comfortable life

of experience and deduction--

I have been, ever since,

exalted--

and even now,

though I am estranged from the world,

I would not go back--

I would not be anywhere else

but stalled in the happiness

of the miracle--

every morning

I stroll out into the fields,

I believe in everything,

I believe in anything,

even if the deer are wild again

I am still standing under the dark trees,

they are still walking toward me.