Foster, John Clay
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Dedicated to Bob Pack

Father deer lucidly daydreams.

His hooves twitch back and forth

between sticky strings of alfalfa.

He whimpers then yelps:

"Shoot him!"

Mother deer sits straight by his side,

she ponders the pinkish-red flowers

that used to be down by the pond.

Speaking in a quiet voice she says:

"Are we most deer when we

see ourselves as human?"

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