Michael Harty

From the highway we spy them
at the mesa´s foot, toy-size, floating
legless as decoys in the Zen-lake of mirage.

Like antennae, antlers turn
perhaps toward us, perhaps away. Our horsepower smell
might sift through their sunswept daydream,

a cloud shadow, a vanishing tumbleweed, no more.
They drift serene among solitary grasses,
granting us a favor, choosing not to disappear.