Buckling

He is in his world of grass and water and mother’s milk
All of seven weeks of life, but still the little man,
Brand new, and all of everything he will be in his mind.

I am not in his world yet,
Except as a large shadowy being.
He sees his mother become active when I appear.
I throw the hay.

Today is his day
To gaze at me, and wonder.

Doeling herd-mates had found me already,
They gather around me, just to rest, and to feel my hands.

I am different. My hands don’t have the agenda of cleaning them,
Or moving them, or admitting them to or chasing them from a meal.
I am not like the mom.
At first my acceptance of them is confusing,
I accept, but have no food to give.

I am not like the other does in the herd either, who accept only their own,
And remind the other babies of this with gentle butts and nips.

No, I accept, but offer no food, and have no agenda.
I just caress… and it is for them, and also for me.

Even a poem founders
In sharing the feel
Of life, of baby, of knowing, of spirit, sentience, eye, character, fur, heart, warmth
That wakens my hands, arms, heart, and mind.

They are potently alive.
Youth is potent. Age is also potent.
And for them, this is different. It is not mom, and it is not cranky herd doe.
This is human… an exchange
Which tells them something new.

Time will, and will not steal them. I don’t tell them this, in my hands.
There is only now, and they are fleeting, but also forever.
That is their gift to me as well, this moment, forever.

They become perfectly still,
And remain so until they feel the virtually invisible meal cue from mom.
And then they are off to goatness, with little crazy tails.

It is hard to wait for the buckling.
I want to sweep him up,
But if I do there is no exchange.
I would be trying to steal something which isn’t there yet.

The buckling has been standing back
And he now steps forward.
I touch him when I think I can, and he retreats.
But I don’t pursue,
Not even with my eyes.
He returns, and there is a dance of approach and retreat,
Which ends with his forehead pressed against my blue jean leg
Deep in another world of thought
Which neither of us understands well.