Pietisten

Grace

by Ann Boaden

He came to my yard,
the fawn with white stipple
on his back like prints of a moon
chalking the night.
He folded dry branch legs
in front like collapsible
bamboo poles,
and lowered butt to grass.
His ears
half again the size of his face
flapped to keep the gnats off.
Occasionally he inspected
something interesting
beneath his haunch.
He was all disjunct,
awkward as a stumble,
and against all odds
impossibly
miraculously
beautiful.