Returning Home During Rutting Season

In the dark before dawn the bucks are out
and moving. ,Probably sniffing out the good pussy,
I laugh, pleased with myself for a moment.
Caught in the glare of the headlight, one stands
as if confused, embarrassed as if I had caught him
about to do something he might be ashamed of.
Go ahead, I say. Get yours. Follow your need.
And I know he will get his
alright. Somewhere in the early dapple
of gray, amongst the dwarf pine smell and
the sweet camphor of other, he’ll find it,
the what he is missing, and lose all sense
of decorum and mount her regardless of his
awkwardness, all muscle and pulsing belief
that this is exactly what he should be doing,
flinging forward until he is truly grace-full,
and the ache comes out of him through
the dark sepulcher of his throat and into
his grave mouth with such animal force
as to nearly tear his straining face off,
the groan-sound so completely frightening
and familiar to every familial creature
within hearing, or even without, that
they will pause for a moment and feel
his wild abandonment, or fear.
I will be back home by then, snuggled
beneath the warmth of thick blankets
waiting for morning. And I’ll say a little
prayer for him who has no need for prayer,
nor god nor towered cathedral, but lives
according to his true nature, pray that
the hunters in the trees are slow and
their sites are somehow off today,
or their guns jam, or they’ve fallen
asleep; that there be some grace
left somewhere that will allow
this one living thing
to find its secret, terrible bliss
in this vast, unraveling world.