Thinking of a friend gone,
spilt leaves along a field edge
rising close-by to a long curve.
There. A shape cut out of sky.
Moments pass. The silhouette
slots into place. Single-tine antlers,
looking, one ear turning, letting
time sift the air between us.
A dog barks in the wood below
and in her own time, a launch, legs
crooked, still in the air, again and
again. Stops. Looks. Doe? We.
(C) Eliza Mood