Far away, in an empty meadow
A doe stands, her back bathed in shadow,
Her head held high in a ray of sun.
Warm, dusky breaths leave her diluted nostrils,
The weeds flick against her legs
Hooves of raw brass and hide made of dun.
The pines alone behold her start
Out from the sheaves to a separate place
Leaving only a print in the falling dust
And a shivering stalk of Queen Anne's lace.