J.C. Reilly

On the bush and bramble side
that fringes toward the wood,
a whitetail stag sniffs the air

then lowers its tongue to Caddo's
edge to drink.  Under your watch,
its eight points gleam a dull,

milky opal, and catch in cattail
cluster.  With a quick head shake,
and a nose blow nearly laugh-like,

it frees its antlers.  Another sip; the deer
finishes its lake water nightcap.
As it clops off into the loblollies,

alert but unhurried,  you darken
to think of hunters, sleeping now,
dreaming all of Actaeon's fate.