My grandmother is in the backyard feeding the deer

that file like ghosts up from the stream, cold, cold,

where Marybelle drowned herself in the spring of eighty-one,

a little tetched, where sassafras leaves like mittened hands

hold the thrashing air until it quiets down and slides

under the surface,

where carefree water striders float, where quiet deer

lap their fill, then go looking for my grandmother

who right now is in the backyard talking to Marybelle.