The Stag
I walk here nearly every day,
but today feels different.
A quality in the air.
A haunting stillness.
Quiet amplifies the sound
of birds—more than usual—
splashing around the spot where
Snowball usually stops for water,
their melodic play punctuated by a racket
beyond a thick bracket of trees.
I move toward the noise, unheeding
my mother’s voice inside
reminding me that I shouldn’t be
walking alone here in the first place.
Gingerly stepping on stones
that bridge the water,
I land on the other bank where
others rarely seem to tread,
look around for the cause of
the disturbance and find everything
seems in order—the stagnant stream,
the grounding tree with above-
ground roots, the pebbled
passage of the dry creek bed.
His movement startles me.
I’d been looking in his direction
but hadn’t noticed him in the thicket
until he announced himself
with a subtle grace that signaled
both warning and welcome.
I remember Snowball by my side
and quickly put her on a leash,
though she appears to know that
absolute presence is required.
Majestic, transcendent,
he looks at me and I at him.
And we are not afraid.
