The animal encounter poem is now so distinct a genre that it

Opening Scene – Narrated by Host

The early morning light spilled through the half-open window, casting a soft glow over the cluttered desk where papers and books were scattered like a landscape of thought. The air smelled faintly of earth and wood, the kind of smell that lingered after a long rain. Outside, the sounds of the world were just waking up: the distant chatter of birds, the rustle of leaves as the wind nudged them awake, and the soft hum of cars passing down the wet streets.

Jack sat by the window, a mug of coffee resting in his hands, staring out into the day, but his thoughts were far away. The rhythm of the world outside seemed to flow in tune with his own thoughts, but there was a storm in his mind — something that had been brewing for days, a question he wasn’t sure how to answer.

Jeeny was sitting across from him at the small kitchen table, her eyes buried in a notebook as she scribbled down words with quiet urgency. Her pen moved quickly, as if chasing something just out of reach, the weight of inspiration pressing on her shoulders. There was a softness in her expression, but also a determination. She had always believed in the power of words, and today, the words were flowing from her as if they had a mind of their own.

Host: It was the perfect kind of morning for a conversation — one that began in silence but would soon find its way into something much deeper.

Jeeny: Her voice broke the quiet, like a thread pulling him back into the room. “Jack, I was reading something this morning. A quote from John Burnside. He said, ‘The animal encounter poem is now so distinct a genre that it would be possible to create a full-length anthology from deer encounter poems alone, and many varieties of experience would emerge from such an exercise.’ What do you think about that?”

Jack: He raised an eyebrow, the words clearly striking him as a bit strange, but there was something curious in them. He took a sip of his coffee, still unsure of where this conversation was going. “Deer encounter poems? Is that a thing? I mean, I get the idea — poems about animals, about nature — but I never thought it was specific enough to have its own genre.”

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping on the edge of his mug. “But, I guess I can see it. There’s something about animals, about those encounters that can carry a lot of weight, a lot of emotion. I’ve read poems before that dive into that, where the animal becomes a symbol, a mirror for something deeper.”

Jeeny: She set her pen down gently and looked at him, her eyes alive with a kind of wonder. “Exactly. There’s a quiet intensity in those kinds of poems. The way an animal’s presence can disrupt a moment, change the way you see things. Deer in particular — they carry so much symbolism: grace, vulnerability, and transience. Think about it. How many times have we had those unexpected encounters with nature, where an animal shows up just when you need it, just when you're at a crossroads in your thoughts?”

Her voice softened, almost as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. “Animal encounter poems capture that, don’t they? The stillness, the tension in the air when you spot something wild, something free. There’s a shift, like nature itself is offering you something, and you’re not sure if you’re worthy of it.”

Jack: His gaze turned inward, lost in thought as he processed what she was saying. He thought back to the moments when he had come across animals — a deer standing still in the fog, a bird taking flight in the early morning — and how those moments had always carried a certain weight. “Yeah, I can see that. There’s a kind of magic in those moments, something that makes you pause, that makes you realize you’re part of something bigger. Nature doesn’t ask for your permission to exist, and yet, it gives you these small glimpses, these brief encounters that change your perspective.”

He let out a breath, his voice turning reflective. “But I don’t know if it would be enough to fill an anthology. I mean, how many different types of deer encounters could there possibly be? Wouldn’t they all start to feel the same?”

Jeeny: She smiled at him, a soft but knowing smile, as if she had expected this. “That’s the beauty of it, Jack. The variety. Even within one category, there’s so much room for different experiences, different emotions, different ways of seeing. A deer encounter in the early morning fog might feel completely different from one in the middle of a snowstorm. Or a deer might bring with it a sense of calm, or it might be a moment of panic — you don’t know what you’ll feel until it happens.”

She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered her next words. “Even though the animal is the same, the encounter is always different. It’s like a poem can capture that, show how something so simple can speak to a bigger truth. The animal doesn’t have to do anything special. Just the act of witnessing it changes you, even if only for a second.”

Jack: He exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth turning up in a reluctant smile as he considered her point. “I see what you’re saying. You’re right. Every encounter is a unique moment, even if the animal is the same. It’s not about the animal doing something extraordinary; it’s about how that moment makes you feel, how it shifts your perspective.”

He took another sip of his coffee, his gaze distant as he thought about the quiet power of a simple deer encounter — how it could ground you, make you reflect, and at the same time, remind you of the world outside of yourself. “Maybe that’s why people keep writing about it. Maybe it’s because, in those encounters, you’re forced to confront something deeper about yourself, something that’s hard to capture in any other way.”

Jeeny: Her smile widened, the satisfaction of the conversation settling in. “Exactly. The encounter itself doesn’t need to be grand. It’s the quiet moments that make the biggest impact. And that’s what poetry does — it captures the simplicity of the encounter and gives it meaning.”

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright with the excitement of her thoughts. “Deer encounter poems don’t have to be about the animal itself. They’re about the way the animal makes you feel, about what you learn in that moment. It’s about noticing the quiet details, finding meaning in something that might seem insignificant to the untrained eye.”

Jack: He nodded, the words finally clicking in his mind. “So, even within a specific genre, there’s an endless amount of stories to be told. The same animal, different experiences. It’s like life — there’s no single experience that defines you. It’s the sum of all the small, seemingly insignificant moments that shape who you are.”

His expression softened, a quiet appreciation for the conversation settling in. “I get it now. It’s not about the animal itself, or even the encounter. It’s about the feeling, the meaning that comes from seeing something in a different light.”

Host: The air between them was charged with a quiet understanding, a shift in perspective that had come not through grand gestures, but through a simple reflection on nature, on animals, and on the power of small moments. Outside, the world continued to turn, but inside, in this moment, they had both come to a deeper appreciation of the way life — and poetry — could be understood in the most ordinary of encounters.

End Scene.