As strides through woods at sunlit eve,
Of winter's dying grace;
It states with perfect careful ease,
Upon my human face

With slightest steps, and wary eyes
It dances , does the deer;
Its head is raised, for any sound
To come to furry ears.

The puzzled deer, its leaps away
It makes no sense of me
I sit, returning wary gaze
With sweet, beloved glee.

Marjorie McAtee

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-deer/