Reluctance Before Spring

by Carolyn Locke

Lately, the deer have been stepping out of the snowy woods
and onto the roads. In the early morning on my way to work,
a trio cavort in front of me, and on Route 1 another leaps
out of darkness into the beam of my headlights. Then one,
two, three, four come bounding across Route 7 at twilight.
I slam on the brakes. In seconds I am at a dead halt.

No collision, no crumpled car, no shattered windshield —
only a drumming in my chest pleading for the green world
to unfold. Yet in the silent aftermath, a softness in my belly,
a yearning for dark shadows playing over white,
for the openness of leafless trees. I am not ready

to be pushed out of the quiet darkness into a world
about to explode — wood frogs and peepers charging
the air with their collective chant, leaves expanding
into a thousand shades of green, bird song
without end. I emerge blinking in the light, feel a perverse
uneasiness at earth’s slow tilting toward the gaudy sun.