I’ve come here so many times before. How often I can’t tell anymore. They’ve asked me if I’d seen you, and I’ve said, “Not a shadow. No. No.” Today I caught you staring at me as I emerged from the woods. It only took me seconds to replace my lens, but when I looked up you were gone. So I walked towards the spot where you stood and there you were, lounging with the remnants of summer, eyes glistening in the setting sun. With your antlers you whisked away the swarm of bugs around your head. And when it didn’t work, you strutted away to another attempt at solitude.
I begged your pardon and asked if I might be in your sight for a moment. For if we catch sight of each other in the next five years, our gaze will no longer be strangers. And our eyes will speak of how much we’ve perfected our solitude in winter.