Beneath the pine’s dark thatch of shadow
bleeds an incidental leak of light
through which a blur of fur speeds by:
a gloss of rump, the spongy, rumpled thud
of moss pressed underfoot, then silence
catches in my ears—we meet, the deer
and I, head-on: me with my halo of gnats,
he with his rack of antlers held aloft.
Steam from our velvet nostrils mingles;
our eyes bulge huge with awe, our lips
part voicelessly, then thunder rocks the air,
and he's gone. A bird ruptures into song.