I believe I can fly – briefly..

The Nog disturbs a yearling doe
behind the hill.
Being young she is scareder
than need be:
uneven on a racing traverse
she stumbles briefly
but clears the ground
in powerful arcs.
Her excitable pursuer is not so impressive.
The bracken has grown above knee high
uncurling from thin soil
like rock-bound ammonites
softening to green life.
Folded in fronds,
the Nog vaults the canopy
to track his vanishing quarry.
His long ears flap
as if to assist lift:
his pursuit vertical
as much as linear,
soon abandoned.
The prey species is master here.



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