Dusk by John Savoie

Dusk

At dusk
the doe
sniffs
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.