Muntjac

Its trail a sharp squeal

in the dawn land,

pungent as wild garlic,

crushed green path, an easy

split of leaves. Stout fur box

clearing the understorey,

backwards sloping antlers

recalling waterfall. A thing

like a bite at hawthorn.

Roughcry, an out-

breath of bluebell rot.

Trace of friction. No

presence – just the

un-witness of twitching

branch. Creeping shadow

freight. Sunbeam

screechback, scattering

the dewpoint to wakefulness.

Slivers of hoofprint

like thumbnails pressed

into shallow puddles.

Then light, lifting all of it

into wholeness.