Doe on the driveway
with this year’s fawn
and last year’s, now full grown,
eating salmonberry leaves.
Carrying the mail, I walk past.
The deer go on browsing.
My old man
likes magazines. He stands
at the cutting board, leafing through
today’s haul. Turns cartoons
in my direction.
Rural postbox half a mile away:
how I keep an eye on the neighbourhood.
Who’s laughing at us today?
Fools set in our ways.