for Brian Lindstrom
The barking rouses him
from the deep of dark.
He yawns, scratches, mumbles
toward the door and calls
for a stop.
He switches on the light, peers
out for possums, raccoons, fox,
even a non-ignited skunk.
Nothing to set off the dogs.
He yells once more
from the backdoor for the dogs
to silence, and in the space
between notes of the hounds’
chorus, he hears. The clack
of antler and huff
of bucks’ breathing. And though
the dogs still howl, the combat
of bucks clamors in his ears.
The air swells with battle. The wind
rises, autumn leaves
leaping from the trees
and seething in the rush.
He aims the flashlight
into the roaring woods
but sees only the whirlwind
of leaves, not even a glint
of antler from the echoing strikes.