As the speaker walks through the marshes in the evening, a doe bursts from the corn and runs uphill, leaving her fawn behind. She pauses on the skyline and watches him, a fine black blotch against the sky. Under her gaze, the speaker feels exposed and strangely transformed, yet he insists he has a right to be there. When she moves again, her poised, level head makes him recognize something of himself in her. The closing questions blur the line between man and animal: he wonders whether his male body is hard-balanced and antlered, whether his haunches are light, whether they have fled on the same wind and carry the same fear. The mood is hushed, alert, and almost mythic—an intimate encounter that becomes a recognition of shared wildness and vulnerability.
A Doe at Evening — Summary
As I went through the marshes a doe sprang out of the corn and flashed up the hill-side leaving her fawn.
On the sky-line she moved round to watch, she pricked a fine black blotch on the sky.
I looked at her and felt her watching; I became a strange being. Still, I had my right to be there with her,
Her nimble shadow trotting along the sky-line, she put back her fine, level-balanced head. And I knew her.
Ah yes, being male, is not my head hard-balanced, antlered? Are not my haunches light? Has she not fled on the same wind with me? Does not my fear cover her fear?