THE HUNT
Truth lingers in tracks stamped in the earth
by the water, by the gate, where the breeze
plays steadily on the ridge. She is shy,
half-embarrassed that you have not seen her
naked, that you can’t relax, that you may be afraid
to know her, afraid to look through her eyes
if she shows herself. Each print embossed
repeatedly, you can see where she fumbled
with the latch, changed her mind and left
you to yourself, yet you can feel her
watching through the manzanita leaves
from the far hillside. There are no secrets
here. Wind and rain may work old tracks
away, but now that she has seen you,
you have become the hunted.