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                                                                                                                                  Pine needles

skewer and scatter the red clay circled opening in this ephemeral forest.

Meandering closer to the

susurrant meadow-maidens

and their furtive glances pull.

She (the golden wheat haired) moves

and leaves fall so slow.

Sticks crack

under me and I am invisible no more. 4 of them

laying hands on what looks to be a fawn

gut shot.

The lady in a periwinkle hoodie, with eyes of a goat,

stares, nods, then continues to murmur with hands out barely hovering over the smooth fur.

Limp then startled, the blinking creature comes awake out of it with 2 pupils shocked by light.

GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 8/11/2019