Inside a snowy blanket which put the trees to sleep, I heard a
fawn.

Out past the window’s ice coat in the morning, I found a sleeping
fawn.

There are men in yellow kitchens watching hands of brown-eyed
women

while men in orange jackets dream in secret, of capturing a fawn.

When I was younger I was taught, but have forgotten, sweet
timidity.

When I am older I will learn, in necessity, the light-footedness
of

fawns.

Someone left a lily on my doorstep, eggshell white with specked
leaves;

the card of introduction said the flower’s name was Fawn.

Sages wonder if it’s possible for men to turn to animals.

I wonder if they’ve pondered the agility of fawns.