a buck stops to rest, tail swatting flies, nose glossy as though
recently stream-dipped, only there are no streams,
this our third year of drought,
a nearby creek skeletal with rocks.

I imagine the buck sucking wet from leaves that are still
green in early October, gnashing out whatever liquid remains.

Whatever moves him to move along this trail, to finally rest
in hollowed out bed of dry grasses, to at last close
his eyes over this season of absolute dryness,

must be whatever entices us to sleep side-by-side
in the blue-black dark where the hours drip their minutes;
where by morning we age into something new.

© by Dianna MacKinnon Henning.
Used with the author’s permission.