Granite Creek

The first of December

Drawing back the curtains

I see you, standing, stock still

At the water bowl.

Wary of my disturbance

Your perfect antlers

Framing the pine,

Our eyes meet,

And you stare me down

Then, deciding I pose no threat,

You stoop to drink,

Eagerly, and alone,

Your precious oasis

Above the dry creek bed.

I had longed to see you

One last time before I go.

I too stand silent,

Drinking in the image of you,

A perfect parting gift

This icy winter’s morning.

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