The deer in the village are angry;

all is out of kilter, wrong.

They remember whispers

of unfettered woodlands,

spreads of blackberries, salmonberries, 

wild apple groves, underbrush for shelter

when the rain turns cold.

They stare into each other’s eyes;

no, there was no mention 

of small dogs, boys with sticks,

small lights like miniature suns 

to invade their night..

The deer in the village are angry,

And they’re not sure

they’re going to 

hang around.