Outside this silent house,
a buck leads hungry foals
onto our yard as a fresh dusting
of flakes falls on the lawn.
They sow not, neither do they reap . . .
A doe takes the rear, keeps
them in line. They
glean morsels from evergreen trees
and crunch dainty footprints in hard snow.
It is the first morning of the year,
and my husband and daughter
ride a snowmobile in the mountains.
Our baby sleeps upstairs.
. . . yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.
I gaze out the window.
Fog rests over the lake,
concealing the frigid water,
the hills, the lazy winter sun.
It is the first morning of the year,
and the snowmobile announces
my family’s return with a rumble.
The baby stirs.
Are ye not much better than they?
I remain at the window.
The deer scamper into the mist.
Do they know
where they are going?
Elizabeth Smith is a freelance editor and writer with a bachelor’s degree in English from Brigham Young University. Her work has been published in BYU Studies Quarterly, The Pinnacle, and Pensive Journal. In 2020, she co-founded a free online literary journal, where she promotes the works of other emerging writers alongside her own: thepensieve.site. She currently lives in Utah with her husband and daughters.
