Renee Owen

nothing

what made him come back, down the winding dirt road, across the fields, heavy and golden in the summer heat, weaving through the gnarled trunks, the buds of apples baked sun brown, ages past bearing, the tops of his rack skim the low-hanging branches as he leaps into the haze, then fades, leaving me with nothing but air

wind music
scent of a stag
on the twilit breeze