Grazing on lilac on the wrong side of chain link, a misplaced buck with sweaty flanks and nostrils fluted with hot breath. Uneven on spindly legs he comes to me, sides flaring and falling, fur wet over ribs, breath audible. Dark deer eye to mine. Our bodies strung tight as bowstring, we stare. St Francis or Diana. I am nothing but shadow to him and extend a hand, human, wonder what noise I should make with lips and he lurches reeling on angles and bones, galloping down the grassy stretch where city dogs shit, leaping into the sagging chain link fence strung up top with barbed wire. Woman across the street holds her hand to mouth. ‘That was terrifying,’ she finally says. ‘Beautiful but sad,’ I say. Cars pass by at ordinary speeds. The deer will see Kipling soon. Strange luck. Seeing a deer foretells gentle changes. Christ, they say, the buck in medieval murals. “Buck on twelfth street,” the wildlife people confirm, “We know.” Andrew thinks he came down the tracks from the wetland just north, spooked by something wilder and lower to the ground, charged south to where we poor people clip lilacs from behind government fences. He was seeking water from industrial sumps, water from the wilting petals of the lilac, drinking rain from pools in the cracked sidewalk with pink tongue, cleft mouth, his velveteen to pavement.