Deer Season
If I am a deer
No one will find me
I’m gone —
There are still places
No one man has been
I would turn the color of oak leaves
When I move into sunlight I am sunlight
As always I will hear the voices of
Hunters breaking through the woodlot
They sound lost
Look disfigured
I can standstill for as long as
It takes for them to walk by
I’m invisible —
The deepness
Of lakes
____________________
Bob Arnold
photo : peter miller
