The Dictators' Guide to Good Housekeeping

Terza Rima: The Fawn

Our friend is an expert hunter and directed
the hike with an autumn pursuit in mind.
I followed, hazy and distracted

by my internal loss that seemed to wind
like a slow corkscrew pressing time in a painless
twist that said Too old, too late, with every grind.

Behind the two dogs we fanned down the mustard cress,
grumbling through the brambled gorse and stopped
at the lake, transfixed by quiet's evanesce

from the water's scrim to us. The doe ran past but the dogs caught
her fawn and it screamed an articulate primal wail,
rending the air, until he tore them apart, not

stopping the barking, or people yelling Do something, they'll
kill it, but by then the fawn was released, had bolted.
Someone held onto each leash as we waded back, the pastoral

mountain now more of a challenge, or less, depending how you counted
fatigue, surprise, interception - what is saved, what stays damaged.