Clouds closed on the acreage, boxed the wind on the hill, swept my evening of obligation through the pin oaks holding fast each five-lobed soul. I paused. Three Graces had lain in a circle, framed by the lawn I’d neglected to cut. The largest doe rose to dine on weeds and mushrooms that had grown around the burn pit, then returned to her bed. I realized I’d never seen a deer lie down – the controlled collapse, slow motion folding onto her front legs first. She did not sit, but gently dove into her imprint. Another stood and wandered off to browse on Parasols and Lambsquarters. Aglaia and Thalia shifted hind to hind like a bird drawn by children. Then, it was my turn to stand and go, but I was loath to break our threesome. Finally, sunset spread a golden death over the treetops; leaves instantly yellowed, as if frostbit. One vulture flapped high above us, made uneasy by such large prey.
Melinda Baker received her Master of Arts in English, with a Concentration in Creative Writing, from Wayne State University in 2021. Her work has appeared in The Midwest Quarterly, The Lyric, the Dunes Review, poets.org, The Gateway Review and The Lakeshore Review. She now teaches ballet in Traverse City, Michigan.