the doe

A whisper in the heather

watchful glances in the glen

naver restraint nor tether

she lifts her head again

Cautious sips at the stream

hesitant nibbles on the green

always watchful always looking

always waiting for things unseen

One small snap of a branch

one soft pad of a paw

her muscles tense in a blanch

his teeth grind hungrily in his maw

she nuzzles her fawn

and he lies down safe and sound

protected with love

his Mum off in a bound

Only for a moment

and with speed in rife

tawny leaps before black

in a race for a life

where one must fail

fangs snap at her heels

a white warning raised tail

he chases relentlessly for his meal

only recquiring one misstep

one hoof caught on a rock

and his teeth close on skin

jaws immediately locked

If she falls in that forrest

will anyone care?

Four more will replace her

a doe is not rare

She staggers and stumbles

his grip strong and firm

but she will -not- fall

she will die on her terms

And as she has done

so many times before

she lays down still and quiet

looking to the sky once more

Her stag is gone

But her little one is safe

her life is done

but his is just beginning

Recognizing his prize

saliva dripping from the beast

and he howls to apprise

calling comrades to the feast