What You Don’t See

What you don’t see

is the long trail down to the water –

heat pressing on my back,

the resin-sweet scent of pines.

Anticipation of finding the river on a hot day.

The small joy of family exploring,

the slow kindness of pausing for a dog’s sore paws –

cold current a balm against his ache.

What you don’t see

is the young buck that sprang across the river

behind me so quick I questioned my own eyes.

The gurgle of water, the scramble of hooves

on slick rock, a flash of white –then nothing.

Why did he choose me?

What wild thread bound us –

brief, wordless, unforgettable.

Are you still alive?

Do you have a family?

Or have you fallen to nature or man?

What you don’t see

is the brief encounter full of life.

I hope it still is.