stomps its hoof in alarm as a doe wanders off
to approach me with curiosity. I’m a khaki blot
on the landscape to beings with weaker sight.
Breeze in my face, my scent is also deflected
while I enjoy the spice of meadow grass.
The doe comes closer, my hunt grows passive.
All I need to do is stand still. The doe contorts
its neck as if triangulation will help translate
my flatness into form. Surprising myself,
I stomp the ground, startling the doe into retreat
as if honoring instinct, an unspoken contract,
this shared responsibility to teach the hunted fear.