BY MERYL DEPASQUALE
Numbers never tell you
of their animal mysteries. They materialize
like deer abreast the underpass
and vanish scarcely glimpsed,
tuft and chrome.
Instinctively you count them—two doe
and a fawn, a buck
in the distance—as if
they’d eat straight from your palms.
Even with the weasel, you yearn
to stroke his rodent belly, slick back
those rounded ear flaps.
Whiskers gone in stretches
of seconds. The slip of pheasants
from tall grasses, wings
tipped to air.
in mortgage payments and slip
on the bills the postman shoves through your slot
like so many noisy birds.
Maybe you’ve been dressed and served.