Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue One

Heather Derr-Smith

The Chase

The moon hovers below the steep cliff, A breast balanced on the horizon. The plain below in a milky haze, Indistinct as mother and child, Mist rising off the frozen creek. The red star of betelguese blinks out as the fog gathers, Hoarfrost creeps in, rubbing its thick Muzzle on the groins of trees. Here Is where the moose went over the edge And the pack followed, plunging In one effusion of silver. Fur And bone and claw arch through air a comet of ellipses, Down onto the body of the moose, Neck broken in its panic, eyes snuffed dark, Transformed from flight into even-song.