by Dom Fonce
Yard signs line every other house,
tilting back and forth down the horizon—
tombstones through a misshapen cemetery.
They all read: SAVE OUR DEER!
The culling, the city calls a harvest,
rings logically—the city unwavering
in its appeal to necessity. But,
the protesters: What stirs their motivations?
In the summer, I walked the trails
alone—my path tunneling through
greenery—chirps and squawks, above.
And through it all, what flashed?
A deer, dressed in white, dipping
its head. I stopped, quieted, followed.
Then a runner on the trail. Then another.
All captivated until it disappeared deeper.
As children, a crane flew overhead,
just fast enough to spur imagination—
we knew our park was magic, contained magic:
a vessel of small delights and distractions.
Dom Fonce lives and writes in Youngstown, Ohio. He is the author of the two chapbooks Here, We Bury the Hearts and Dancing in the Cobwebs. He holds an MFA from the NEOMFA. His poetry has been published in trampset, Gordon Square Review, Rappahannock Review, Delmarva Review, Jenny Magazine, and elsewhere. Find him at domfoncepoetry.com.