Timothy Pilgrim
High on Adventure's Poet Laureate
Timothy Pilgrim


By Timothy Pilgrim


Dawn, twins arrive, behind the fir,
her second year of birth. By noon
a third lies dead near spotted lumps
asleep in leaves under dogwood tree.
She has time to feed on tulips,

columbine, laurel, choice weeds.
I sneak out, cover what’s left
of blueberry with net, put out salt,
tub of water, lock the gate.
Four hours pass, my window vigil —

are they alive — YES, first, one,
then the other totters out, begins
to nurse. Garden-pot tall,
spindly, unsure, they stray,
nose the grass. Ears rise, turn

to each new sound, somehow
they re-find her, reach up, nuzzle,
drink. Both wobble away, lie
amid planters warmed by sun —
begin to nap. Mom reclines, rests

in grass, chews, grooms — ears
keep track of cat on patio,
boy-brawl next door, blended sounds
of skittering squirrel,
dipping jay, pressure-washer whir.

The pattern repeats three times,
dusk, dark — I fail to sleep.
Day two mirrors one — teeter
through salal, day lilies, taste peas,
return to teat. Rest three hours, nose

young leeks, cross lawn, find mom.
Third morning, she leaps the gate,
I prop it open, later see her go,
twins in tow. They lurch along —
to gone. I bury the dead fawn.

(published by Toasted Cheese)






Fawns side by sideCopywrited photo by Timothy Pilgrim

Fawns nursingSteve Giordano photo

  Timothy Pilgrim, a native of Montana and retired university journalism professor living in Bellingham, WA, is a Pacific Northwest poet and 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee. His poems have been accepted more than 500 times by journals such as Toasted Cheese, Mad Swirl, Cirque, Santa Ana River Review, Windsor Review, Hobart, Otoliths and Prole Press in the U.S. Canada, Australia and the United Kingdom. He is the author of Mapping water and Seduced by metaphor: Timothy Pilgrim collected published poems, which the back cover calls “a 10 on any Richter imagination scale.”