En ounters

The doe and her fawn looked up, unshaken, gazing steady as if they knew the truth, as if they recognized what we shared. Or maybe the mother, ageless, recognized something: a footfall, or breath like the old pursuer, the one who ran them tired, who approached softly and yes, killed, but always in awe, and thanks, and love, harvesting just enough light to shelter the sacred flame.

Poetry 17