She's an easy target from this deerstand.
With a click I can shoot her, capture her
mealing in the cornfield, leaves pleated
against her brown, spots fading
behind the blondes of harvest.

She was set-up, suckered here
by a hunter's salt-lick, but obliged to stay
and nosh on grain, destined to return tomorrow -
unaware bow season begins. She is unstirred

by the crisp-whisper churned by wind and corn,
yet spooked away by a flush of grackles.
My camera can't catch her
warmth of breath panted against shucks and leaves,
or the skip-pulse of her heart. But it will witness her being
here; her exploration; her instinct to hide
existence among colors. It will focus
on the caution and tenderness of easing
into life, before the tenderness is yielded
alongside butter and pone.