A moment

Stag foraging:

white forefeet

the work of

a master:

why would the hunter

creep through longer

grass to focus

your chest?

And where has the

doe gone, quartering

further back

in the green glen?

Until she wanders

out and touches

nose to soft nose

upwind

taking a chance

together and enticing

him back under cover

of high green shrubs.

The hunter’s finger stretches,

turns, determines now what

these two wastrels

will become.