Mudlark No. 48 (2012)


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)