Silent sun, uncertain light,

Screened by frosted clouds from frozen night,

sifting through the tangled forest top.

Forest's edge, the chilly brook

wanders through a path of ice.

Morning beckons; onset of another day.

Rise up, shake off the night of fitful sleep!

The sleeping herd awaits its master's call.

A sudden snort of frozen air; a bellowed wail,

antlers strike a hollow stump, echo through the wooded pall.

A lonely howl comes in reply, joined by another and then two.

Stay still, listen; death is calling—too close away.

Nature does command that morning follows night,

that snow shall shift as sand upon the meadow,

that wolves will hunt and deer will run away.

How does the fine line draw in sands of snow,

dividing law and that which is sublime?

Can a deed, in grace embraced, endure through evertime?

The does are frozen in their fright, the hungry pack surrounds.

Safety could be close at hand; silent voices warn to flee:

a leap and bound, then run away—new forests' edges to be seen.

Yet, whirl about with lowered rack and face the pack;

a thrust, a yelp, an antler cracks; a stolen glance—the does in flight,

as hungry teeth complete their fatal deed.

In spring the forest edge is warm and soft, the brook runs fresh and clean,

save the blood that rests in soil below where flight to haven might have been.

Fawns lie hidden in the grass, a forgotten antler beckons

a question which they cannot know, but may one day come to reckon:

"How does one know to trade the view of future springs in lifetime owed

for a leap across an icy brook with scenes of heaven to behold?"