• There’s an art in starving.

    The deer, almost skeletal,
    Thin,
    A brushstroke on the snow,
    A needle weaving through the naked trees,
    Scarcely a shadow.

    The ravens dance above,
    Circular as planets do.
    Their caws claw at the sooty sky,
    Rouse Hunger from His deep
    Deep sleep.

    And He stands behind his prey,
    Lets her stagger through the ice,
    Falter,
    Savor silent goodbyes,
    sorrows of broken ties between herself
    and the Else, and she stills
    with deep, deep roots-
    gladly bows to Him.