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Before the concert, the oboe player
slipped off one red pump
and slid it back on. Then
her breath filled the space
with plaintive sound.
She sat right in front of us,
close, yet distant
as the deer that make their way
up from the valley while we sleep,
their hooves denting the mossy lawn.
And the one that leapt across River Road,
scarcely touching the right fender,
before disappearing into a field—
maimed or not, I’ll never know.
Nor will I know, most likely,
just what brushed against my hand
as it flew into dusk, its flight
the slightest whirr.
I imagine it a perky house wren,
familiar with us from walks
past the wood’s edge where it forages,
chattering and wagging its saucy tail.
How many evenings
does it nestle in the clothespin bag
hanging at the corner of the shed?
This is the world I want,
felt as much as seen or heard.
Nearly held, nearly known.
not the implausible next.
Copyright 2019 Luray Gross. From Lift published by Ragged Sky.