A spotted fawn leaps across
the farm field at dusk.
You kill the engine and in this rare moment of
pause, August moon rising,
the baby stopping to look you in the eye,
you realize a word for your life is
leaping too, rustling the corn.
Where did it go?
Ears bend in waning light,
waiting in vain
for an answer. You even heard this once,
from your grandmother, toward the end.
It goes so fast.
The red and russet tapestry of earth
billows across the plain
like a golden chute,
the toil of harvest
The fawn fades away,
a mother calling—
sky on fire,
a lost horizon,
your sinking flame.
Gina Williams lives and creates in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry, essays, and visual art have been featured by or are forthcoming most recently in Carve, The Sun, Fugue, Palooka, Boiler Journal, Whidbey Art Gallery, Black Box Gallery, and Great Weather for Media, among others.