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Image by Scott Carroll

I watch the mist of your breath

on a cold afternoon,

the sun burnishing you

to red flame, liquid black eye.


The skittering grace of you,

slim-necked watchfulness

all sinew and fur,

the delicate press of your hooves

on this hollowed earth.


If I could, I would be deer-shaped,

I would move between

gilded grass and ancient hill

like something dreamt.

Like no borders exist.


Such a prehistoric bark and cry— the lowing pitches across

the landscape, calling, calling

time to come in

from the dark.

Faith Allington is a writer, gardener and lover of mystery parties who resides in Seattle. Her work is forthcoming or has previously appeared in various literary journals, including Crow & Cross Keys, The Fantastic Other, The Quarter(ly), Bowery Gothic and FERAL.

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