Prayer for the Wounded

The rain fell and left
and rises again as a gray mist
covering the orchard behind our home.
This brooding sky troubles me.
I want sun or rain,
the eyes of heaven weeping
or crinkling in laughter
not this relentless staring,
this vacant God.

Out of the mist a deer
with a broken leg
limps to the edge of our lawn
and curls up in a bed of pine needles.
Our eyes meet through the window.
I try sending inter-species vibrations
across the glass.

Coyotes lurk behind trees
and tall grasses, ready to cull the weak.
Bold enough to come in our yard by day
wild banshees into the night.
I cast the coyotes as villains
in the story of this deer's life.

I want to open my back door,
walk through the damp grass
and sit beside the deer.
I want to run my hand over
its flanks and sing prayer
into an indifferent steel sky.
But at the sound of the latch
the deer would struggle to its feet.
its fleeting peace would splinter.

On days when color lies dormant
in the soil when prayers
stick to my tongue.
I cannot laugh or weep.
I can only stand watch.