By MR Baird


I have descended out of the Northwest

Back into civilization

Sounds of cars and jets,

Weed eaters now hurt my head,

I don’t belong here anymore

Now that I think of him,

That stag,

I met in the early morning

High on a mountain,

His nostrils quivered, breathing me in,

His show of bone and velvet cover

Waving the way to the trees

In single beats,

In standing ground, closer,

A compass,

Breaking our silence,

Telling me to follow,

His living story as old as

The traveled stone,

His trumpeting voice, carried

Across the moors.


©2016, M. R. Baird