There is a poignancy in all things clear,
In the stare of a deer,
in the ring of a hammer in the morning.
The deer ate our sunflowers.
They were Mammoth Sunflowers; we grow them for the goldfinches. My poor husband had been tending them, staking them, tying them.
The deer ate just the tops and the leaves. Only the thick green stalks remain; five feet tall.
Maybe we can make little sunflower seed balls for the finches, mount them on the tops?
It’s hard for me to be angry with the deer, though.
Especially when they bring their darling fawns to visit, waiting patiently for me to take their pictures, before tossing their heads, flicking their tails, and bounding daintily off into the woods.