October 2, 2017

Outside night had fallen.
The door closed on conversation
as my friend and I walked
in gentle glow of strung lights.

He told me he had seen
earlier that day an eight point buck
stepping carefully where the creek
levels with the valley.
They travel farther and
farther down to dip their heads
in slow pools of water.

As we got into my car
pale street lights buzzed,
and on the road
fire bright headlights
drifted north from downtown.

I had said,
Tonight we ride
in memory of Tom Petty.
True to my word
his southern cured voice
and his broken band
pulsed against metal and glass.
Anger sifted below seats
leaving small catches
of beauty in the cracks
through which it had passed.

I thought of that buck
hiding in the undergrowth,
bushes quivering around his eyes,
silence his destitute friend,
and I wondered when it was
that he realized:
All days prior to this day
I had no thought of fear,
all days prior to this day
I had no thought of the hunter.