Walking the Perimeter

I find buckthorn cracked at the trunk, just-budding black 
raspberry vines arching from thickets, a wild of silver 
dollar sized dandelions, white-veined burdock leaves like 
outstretched palms, a pair of red trillium with edge-eaten 
petals, sprays of yellow mustard, tangles of honeysuckle 
tumbling onto the path like new lovers who couldn’t wait 
to get home. In a stretch of shaded grass where dew lasts 
till late afternoon, I spy does' tracks that cross through a broken 
barbed wire fence from Rathbun’s field and over a fallen 
apple trunk’s still-blossoming branch. I’ve been seeing their 
droppings and hoof prints deep-veed in muck, waiting to catch
a flash of white tail that’s as much a sign of spring as red clover
and purple vetch, buttercups and clutches of red clover. After 
wintering on the Cobble, they’ve moved back for new grass 
and fresh greens from the creek, ready for spring after a winter 
of bark and acorns grubbed under leaf cover, looking for a place 
to drop their fawns. Years back in tall grass I surprised one, 
knobby-kneed and fighting for its balance. I thought it abandoned 
till I learned later that’s the way they work it. I’ll be back for berries
the deer don’t get first, squeeze the nutty sweet flavor against the roof 
of my mouth. I’ll cut the brush back and mow the fields a couple 
of times this summer, but it’s break even at best. I cycle through, 
each spring walking the perimeter to see the first colors rising
since November’s first hard frost when I bedded down for winter.