This morning
 two deer
  in the pinewoods,
   in the five a.m. mist,

in a silky agitation,
 went leaping
  down into the shadows
   of the bog

and together
 across the bog
  and up the hill
   and into the dense trees—

but once,
 years ago,
  in some kind of rapturous mistake,
   the deer did not run away

but walked toward me
 and touched my hands—
  and I have been, ever since,
   separated from my old, comfortable life

of experience and deduction—
 I have been, ever since,
  exalted—
   and even now,

though I am estranged from the world,
 I would not go back—
  I would not be anywhere else
   but stalled in the happiness

of the miracle—
 every morning
  I stroll out into the fields,
   I believe in everything,

I believe in anything,
 even if the deer are wild again
  I am still standing under the dark trees,
   they are still walking toward me.