Labyrinth On this misty morning the labyrinth is a labyrinth no clear pathway anywhere, sand scuffled over the brick edging, some bricks buried, oak leaves, footprints, deerprints jumbling the boundaries, fog jumbling the forest beyond, the birds blurry as they skitter on the edges. You try starting over, twice, only to lose your way again. You close your eyes breathe in the cold silver- slivered air, then slip into the forest, nearly invisible yourself, laughing to think you thought you knew the way. Yearling The yearling in the creek hops and hulas, wiggles a rear end, runs in a tight circle as if chasing her tail, scampers side to side—all in a most un-deer-like fashion—leaps up the snow-covered bank and back skittering on rocks, like children everywhere, playing with whatever they can find. How to Listen Like a Deer How to listen like a deer ears pitched forward body utterly rapt waiting, not for a message but for a wider knowing: what it means to be still, what it means to leap out of that stillness.