At the edge of forest
and field, a dappled fawn
wobbles through tall
grass, each step halting,
delicate. Around her,
the sweet clover blooms
in a yellow haze. Ash
sifts, from the nearby wildfire.
Scent of burning, scent
of change. Lyric variations
of the song sparrow
thread the air as if he is
stitching together all
that is here. Not pictured,
but no less present:
You. The sparrow. The flame.
The fawn steps into the open
to walk inside me, weaves
through a sea of shifting greens.
Long after she disappears,
she does not leave.