Whitetail

Remember  last fall:  the hunter’s moon
fitting    its   eye    against    a   cold   sky,
and   the    two    of    us   arm    in    arm
somewhere.   Quiet     as    deer    before
the snap.   How beautiful,  we whispered
to      each       other.      How      beautiful,
how   beautiful.   And   the   whole   time,
the moon held its breath, and trembled,
and aimed.