Dusk by John Savoie


At dusk
the doe
the air,
then turns
and bounds
through black
woods, waving
her plume
of white
flame, gone.

by John Savoie

Editor’s Note: Many deer visit my yard, and I can attest that their tails do indeed resemble flames. This is one of those poems that says everything with so few words that writing an editor’s note is somewhat absurd.