The Muse is the doe
in the road you miss
hitting, the one crossing
on cautious hooves,
sniffing the air
for your secrets.
On the other side,
she turns back, gazing
with a curious gleam
as if asking what you
mean if not danger.
Now she’s leaping
off with a flick
of white tail you take
as invitation.
You may follow
her through the mist
between trees,
beside the marsh or stream,
through the bright
and dull seasons of wings.
All she asks is that
you forget your car,
your destination, and every
map you’ve ever believed in.
