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,
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.