"Yearlings" by Sarah Fannon



The night I see baby deer

casting circles into the forest

floor with little hooves,

I stop to stare at the chase.

They romp through

dirty pools of rainwater

and melting snow,

bodies bounding in

elegant bursts like wind

if wind could be joyful.


There are three of them

until there aren’t.

When they run through

tangled trees, fur slipping

into the brown wood

so they are only visible

by the thick white clouds

of their bouncing tails,

they burst into seven

deer on the other side,

as if puddles have refracted

them into more creatures;

as if my gaze has multiplied

their magic; as if there

is always something more to see

if you stay a little longer.




Sarah Fannon is a graduate of George Washington University's Honors English and Creative Writing program and she continues to live in the DC area. Her work is featured or forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, Dark Moon Digest, Diabolical Plots, Divination Hollow Reviews, and more. Find her online at www.sarahfannon.com.


Instagram: @ampersarah

Twitter: @SarahJFannon


Related Posts

See All

"[the sick cat is licking]" by Christine Hamm

Lately, the cat has taken to purring every night around 9. Sometime he drools on his bright orange coat, sometimes he looks like tangled weeds. Last night, people saw northern lights in New Jersey. To

"a cricket in the apartment" by Elizabeth Galoozis

we know it only by its sound the vibration of its wings in the dark. we have tried to trace the chirp, trap it. closed all the windows, taken a broom to the skylight to shake it loose but all that fel

  • Twitter
  • Instagram

© 2021 by Horse Egg Literary