Fawn by Rosie Driffill

Notice a February field,

horse-hair silver, braided

under pink coverlet of moon.

Beyond, a fringe of cloud

slung low, like underskirts

reveals a fawn, unsteady

on his legs, unready,

still, to navigate

the stiffened curls of earth.

Surely, soon, the way of things

will have it, that he’ll walk,

and then careen across

A glide of sky.

The real question is, whether

anyone will notice.

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