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I hiked out of the valley
   for reception,
spoke to your voice
   mail, terse, all business,
and then the clacking dice
   of the rocks, then the oil-
painting deer
   appeared. I didn't move.
The sun radiating
   off the road, the trees
distant havens of shade.

Legs bony as a greyhound,
   white ears pricked up.
She could have the woods,
   the pond beyond the trees,
the twisting grapevines,
   all the ripe season. I shifted,
and she disappeared.

Stupid to think I called her
   forth by calling you.
After all, you hunt;
   you would've been
the guns cracking in
   the woods, baying
hounds, camouflage man
   I'd heard that week
but never seen.

Lisa Ampleman

Cimarron Review

Winter 2013

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