Driving past October cornfields, moonlit road narrow as a path through sheaves, spilled whiteness of birch trees on the backs of our hands. And there, suddenly, frozen at the edge of macadam, the doe and her fawn, the insides of their erect ears the color of pale bark. Your hand touching mine. Our breath halted. Their flanks momentarily still, eyes obliterated by the candle power of sealed beams, their nostrils awaiting resumption of wind, odors of the moon’s heat. We breathe. And they begin the slow ascent of their perfect bodies away from us, departing, floating over wild phlox into the shadows of maples, the landscape closing behind them.
John Allman | Song Against Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)