Dusk
At dusk
the doe
sniffs
the air,
then turns
and bounds
through black
woods, waving
her plume
of white
flame, gone.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, November 23, 2015 — by John Savoie
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
—a poem each day— —read more—
Dusk
At dusk
the doe
sniffs
the air,
then turns
and bounds
through black
woods, waving
her plume
of white
flame, gone.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, November 23, 2015 — by John Savoie
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
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