I called it a forest, in my head, but it was no longer a forest. It used to be, I’d presume, for the area was fenced, pipes were built, the land was mowed, and the skeletons of a building was present. The pond was artificial. It was often drained, then refilled for reasons unknown to me. And the leftover trees served as much purpose as this pond to the people; for aesthetic purposes only. But nature didn’t care, and nor did I, for I trespassed anyway. The pipes served as artificial dams and homes for the shy beavers and various rodents. The artificial pond was home to the births of many ducks whom I’ve watched over, and imagined myself as their guardian. I was ten. The signs “no trespassing”, placed by the blackest pots ever, did not stop these creatures, these magic, and I from “trespassing,” dwelling in their homes.

The forest was majestic and magical in my perception, influenced by Harry Potter and Tom Sawyer. It was a place full of adventures. It was next to the public library where I visited every day for a dose of entertainment. I often visited this forest, and imagined myself climbing this one particular tree; the tree that I’ve thoroughly scouted and selected after rounds of eliminations. And through the power of imagination, a tree house was built atop this majestic tree, with pillows, books and a fireplace. Yes, a fireplace.

One summer evening, as usual, the fragrance of freshly cut grass traveled past my nostrils, scratching at my olfactory senses. And it transformed this forest into a farm. Am I an animal on this farm? What am I? A goose? A pig? A well-starched heifer? Or an adventurous young boy? I was the latter. The air was crisp and fresh, yet my lips were dry; a lick of the tongue was all I needed, to amplify the sheen of my lips. On this farm, I met a fellow trespasser, a fawn.

The non-existent antler left no marks on the trees,

Be careful, or it might just flee.

How do you gain on this cervine creature?

In the case of this dear fawn, I’m the expert you should ask.

You extends your hand, no, your snouts towards these foliage,

But not too quickly, for it might just flee fast.

You chew with your hand,

The leaves and herbs.

You blend in with the land,

Without causing any disturbances to occur.

You chew, and you chew; delicious leaves you chew.

You move closer, and closer, without any signs of being shrewd.

In this forest, us two creatures mingled be.

For we are both herbivores; oh these are delicious herbs indeed.

Oh my word, stay, please do stay,

For we are two naïve, innocent herbivores, simply enjoying this foliage buffet.

Look at my hands; pardon moi;

My moistened, sticky snouts, moistened by these dews, smeared with delicious herb juices.

Notice these innocent snouts, innocently chewing,

Like a calf, a lamb, or a fawn, gently grazing.

Hello, my dear herbivorous friend.

May I come a little closer?

For these are snouts, and not hands.

Come embrace me,

Like adders in the sands of Egypt.

“Succeeded” is the word, for I am a fawn whisperer.

Mimic Poem influenced by John Donne

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“Well-Starched” Cows

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