DEER AT TWILIGHT

Dim half light, the orchard
exhaling its last breath, as
evening makes all colors equal—
reds, blues, greens, now shades of gray.
And here come the deer
tiptoeing down the trail, hesitant,
tentative, ready to bolt, flick their
white tails, disappear
in the hedgerow. This is summer's end,
leaves flaring red and gold, and the garden
is dwindling, as days
grow shorter. Whose name do we
hear in the slow tones the owl calls
to its mate in the thickening dusk?

~Barbara Crooker
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