I watch the mist of your breath

on a cold afternoon,

the sun burnishing you

to red flame, liquid black eye.

 

The skittering grace of you,

slim-necked watchfulness

all sinew and fur,

the delicate press of your hooves

on this hollowed earth.

 

If I could, I would be deer-shaped,

I would move between

gilded grass and ancient hill

like something dreamt.

Like no borders exist.

 

Such a prehistoric bark and cry— the lowing pitches across

the landscape, calling, calling

time to come in

from the dark.