The Yearling

with no new
little one this
year, she
still bathes
him like a
starspangled
fawn, until
his fur
stands up
in great
cowlicked
waves, until
the young
does drop
their heads,
hiding their
smiles in the
tall grass, until
he turns
away,
flicking his
tail irritably -

why is it
that mothers
are always
the last to
see: that spindly
twiglegs
have become
strong springy
branches; that he
bears two
antler buds (little
nubs
in peachfuzzy
velvet); that an eagle's
heart
beats in
his narrow
chest?