Which Last

In the thicket just west of my shack,

under the heaviest of canopied pines,

every day, all winter long, two does recline

and rest, and sometimes when I look

from the window their eyes are closed,

but still they go on chewing whatever

snowbound vegetation they’ve uncovered—

or just their sad, inadequate cuds, I suppose.

As I suppose my daily apple also

is due to them. I’ve been a little slow to learn

not to throw the core and make them run,

but to toss it gently between us, like so,

then go inside and watch through the glass,

to see which is the lucky first one to it, which last.