Standing still in woods alone,
long limbs shake and ears prick
hearing hoofbeats just beyond the woods.
A partial alarm is waiting
Heart pounding and quietly quaking
watching the man admiring the snow.
I turn and sprint to life, fleeting like wind,
dark against black, against Robert Frost’s
‘the deepest night’,
a lone deer flying deeper into the wood,
the wood still, and silently, filling with snow.