Trail

Editor back-issues, poetry

The doe is dead, devoured by hounds. Her bones lie by the river’s edge. Curled small, small is never long; her body will grow and cast away the brush that veils her. Her fair spots will fade with time. It’s the sparrows that call her to run, to stretch her legs long and flee. But the fawn, she listens to the leaves whispering that it is safe to stay.

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