The Father
A stag, regal and ragged,
his breath visible, like soul made flesh.
He listens, not with ears, but with memory.
Where is the heartbeat that once leapt beside his?
Predators do not always snarl.
Some wear the cloak of men and carry thunder on their shoulders.
Others simply wait… for grief to do the hunting.
The father searches still...
against instinct, against odds, against time.
The forest holds its breath.
Will reunion come… or requiem
