By Mark Wunderlich
Two days of snow, then ice
and the deer peer from the ragged curtain of trees.
Hunger wills them, hunger
pulls them to the compass of light
spilling from the farmyard pole.
They dip their heads, hold
above snow, turn furred ears
to scoop from the wind
the sounds of hounds, or men.
They lap at a sprinkling of grain,
pull timid mouthfuls from a stray bale.
The smallest is lame, with a leg
healed at angles, and a fused knob
where a joint once bent.
It picks, stiff, skidding its sickening limb
across the ice's dark platter.
Their fear is thick as they break a trail
to the center of their predator's range.
To know the winter
is to ginger forth from a bed in the pines,
to search for a scant meal
gleaned from the carelessness
of a killer.
I have reaaaallly had it with coughing. (So, apparently, has Cheryl, whom I or someone else gave the bug -- apologies!) I had another relatively quiet day doing things like hanging up hooks in my closet for scarves and folding laundry while watching Pride on demand (it's excellent -- great cast, funny and touching screenplay, really uplifting story on a horrific news day from Europe).
Adam went for an interview for a possible internship, and we had some kind of awesome pistachio and white bean noodle casserole when he came home, then we all watched Gone Girl, which I did not like -- mostly detestable characters, a streak of really intense misogyny, performances and directing not as riveting as I expected except the awesome NPH. More Lewis Ginter garden lights: