“Gully,” a poem by Janet Grace Riehl tells of erosion of land, time, and memory

GULLY
by Janet Grace Riehl
(from Sightlines: A Poet’s Diary)

I raise my head from the ground
where my eyes were glued
to avoid tripping over my feet.

A cleft joins the two curves of the hill,
a dimple that marks its face like Cary Grant’s.

Matted grass cushions my steps
pattering over yesterday’s mud.

I ran down the hill on this path
to my aunt’s house,
to catch the bus,
or to wrangle a horse to ride

It wasn’t cut so deep then.
This cleft seems more like a gully in the making.
In a hundred years, perhaps a ravine.

My upward gaze catches a doe crossing the gully.
She gamely hitches an injured back leg
behind the other three.
A lame deer, running.