I walk the bikeway, keeping left, as told,
By cyclists streaming by in morning cold.
The mounds of rocks in random disarray
Remind me of the ancient search for gold.
From baseball-sized to melons, they appear
To have soft oblate forms on which the deer
Tread noiselessly, even when I’m close;
No click or clatter that my ears can hear.
A buck, a doe, and then a fawn or two
Graze and pause, then stare, as deer will do.
On rounded stones, their hooves, in silence, trod—
A dream observed, ephemeral as God.