What angle of vision do I need
to see the two does in the orchard

as angels wandering across the centuries
of fallen apples, tiptoeing into this moment,

into our eyes meeting like notes
converging into a chord

as a late snow fills last year’s
bird’s nest with white orchids?

Time’s only the ticking of a woodpecker’s
beak against a tree behind me—

hunger being one way we awaken
to this world, wonder being the other.