She?

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