A falling star.
The joke he calls his car.
Bars are few and far between.
Three-point-two beer.
A timid, frightened deer
nearly collides with the chrome
plate bumper of
the car. Storm clouds above,
love took wing like flocks of geese.
The couple dined.
The first time he was kind.
Minding manners was his rule.
Next time he said:
"Let's stop, and go to bed".
Ready arms were her reply.
In firelight dim,
she gave herself to him.
Simply, without promises.
He remembers
those early Novembers.
Embers, fading as she slept.
This hawk, still free
as anything can be.
Preening his feathers at dawn.
This fleeting ghost
perched atop a fence post,
boasting of his mastery ...
Fresh from the kill.
The mouse, still in his bill.
Will he always hunt the Hills?