Shepherds of My Dreams

Fawn trails a doe, its reddish-brown body
is sprinkled with spots so very pale.
Puzzled looks raise their brows,
the fawn keeps looking back but is hurried on,
then they’re gone.

I’ve seen them in threes, resting in grass,
with enough distance they pause to gaze,
plenty of time to gather those elegant legs.
One two three -- release
then they’re gone.

When I was nine, I came upon a doe
in grandpa’s field. She nibbled around an old stump
till she saw me and my open mouth,
turned quick on her hooves, showed a white rump
she was gone.

When sleep comes slow, I gather up each scene,
herd them together to make a dream.
In the morning there’s a slight aroma of grass
and warm skin, and some other smell I can’t place,
but now it’s gone.