doe

I am that dance across the forest floor when the wind comes, and I am hidden away under the grasses as the field sways, soft and warm from the sun like any fine bed. I pass quickly over the greens when the song of the day is full, when the birds and the cicadas fill their chests with clear air and make beautiful music. Now, I am in the shape of a doe, frozen on the forest floor, waiting. 

We are caught, snagged on something at the edge of the woods and we will not run. It was not long ago, in the warmer seasons, that we traveled without rest. In March, as we passed, the snow remembered the doe’s tracks and tended them carefully. The snow kept them as long as it could until April rain came down fresh and forgivingly showered her clean, washing the spots from her brown back. Come May, buds swelled into flower before her hooves, joyfully entrancing her to stay, but as we grew through the caress of young branches in spring, we would not be held.

 In August, the young woman of summer called to us, come bound back deep into the woods with me, doe. Be silent, be quick and be forgotten, doe. He does not deserve your eyes. He does not deserve your swift hooves and lean legs. Turn your tail, says the young summer. But October has come and we are snagged here, waiting. 

I am the shape of the hunter, stillness sharply cast upon the shifting grasses. October crunches beneath his heavy feet, and bites his stiff fingers without welcome. The hunter doesn’t mind the red that blushes to his fingers, cheekbones, and the tip of his nose. The red that tells him this secret, of how well he can endure. The red secret of warmth radiating from his chest and belly, the red telling him the powerful claim he has over life. 

The doe doesn’t mind the stinging feeling of cold and wind at the tips of her ears and wet nose, either. The close presence of the cold is only now, and now again. She waits, watching those pink blossoms in his pale, unfamiliar features, watching the dexterity of his strange hands, and the definition of his brow ridge, jawline, nose, and his eyes, his eyes. He stares straight-on, even softly, how the headlights are fast approaching. We cannot move to the light.

Once, I was a gentler thing, in the shape of a boy, who stumbled to follow through the deep woods. Once, I was as small as the hesitant hand that touched the still fur of another fallen, the humble quiet before the grace of her body colored red. Once I was made in the shape of rounded shoulders, and once a bowed head. Once, the hunter was afraid, and frozen too, and carried no gun at all, only the burden of one, for the sake of a father. 

Look at her stillness, the silence, he says to the gun. Look at her eyes, her swift hooves and lean legs. Look at all I can take from her--and he felt the embers in his chest breathe red, pull greedily at this feeling, as the gun became heavy with power. 

I am still the rounded shoulders, the bowed head, the child’s wide open eyes and hesitancy, the shock and the slightly sick fear, though now I am concealed behind something new; I am built broader, taller, quicker, and the hunter is only almost afraid.

The gun is growing restless, twitching with anticipation and impatience. The hunger, that want, moves the hunter now; the predator, movements languid and sweeping, mouth watering, savors the flavor of his suspension in complete confidence. His hands to the gun are unhurried. His breath comes out heavier, his chest falling and rising with new sharpness, and the light sees it all, and I am it all. 

She stares and the autumn filters through the canopy and dapples her coat as it would if she were a fawn again. His hunger is so different from the way the forest cared for her. We are still. He is mostly still as well, in the tired grass. It is a boy, who breathes out as he levels the gun, where there is nothing but feeling.

It's not a violent thing. It is gentle, graceful. It's a boy who stares into her large open eyes. It's a boy who pulls the trigger, who watches the red bloom from the wound, opening her like a flower.  

She falls silently and does not struggle, only the spirit kicks a little to get a running start as it flies from her. Beneath her, the grass does not mind me. 

Given to life, the light will die and I will always remain.