Wyatt

There is a deer that flies before my eyes
Far from the outcry of the chasing pack
Who seem not to have found her hidden track
But wander after self-inflicted lies.
Yet still she races, as if some surprise
Has floated to her on the wind's new tack,
And turning ever forward and then back,
Zigzags across the wood, and ever flies.
I know her well, for we have met before,
And I have felt her nuzzle in my hand;
I would not call her tame unto command,
But neither would I call her wild therefore.
She has her head, and I will let her run
In trust that she'll return when she is done.