The big game has locked
himself around two saplings.
There he rubbed the forest’s
velvet off his antlers.
And now the curved trees
grip his long tines. He shakes
his body, stamps his hooves:
leaves float one by one
to the ground. I wonder
about his will, wonder if the trees
or his antlers will give way
first. And soon, I hear before
I see one antler crack, broken
at the base and falling
to the forest floor. So there
he stands, asymmetrical
and beautiful; he doesn’t buck,
doesn’t grunt, doesn’t shake his half
a rack like a fist of knifes.
He just walks away, half his crown
left to trees that held him tightly.
