The morning sun blazed
     the grass around her 
transforming the blades
     a stain-glassed miasma
of gold, umber, and lime

And there the fawn lay
     her spotted hide 
     her only way to hide
           from being spotted

If it weren't
for the pulsing of her breath
    and the dark brown of her eye
peering back at me
    peering at her
I would have feared her dead

Why have you stopped? that eye accused
  Will you eat me?
    Will you bite me?
      Rip into me?
         Make me a tiny, morsel-sized snack
                                           of me?

I'm only here to admire 
I whispered
  But even at the whisper
      she trembled

I walked away, disturbed
   by her fragility
           and vulnerability

But also,
   my own fears resonated
like the key of a piano that, when pressed down
          --silently waiting--
      will echo the pitch 
once the other one sings
  (or, in this case, perhaps screams)

Is this not also the early days of any artist?
  To be tight, wound up, seeking to hide, trembling, petrified
            full of beauty, warmth
                   --and awful vulnerability--
ready to walk, but also,
   not ready to venture, not yet?

Will you bite me? Rip into me? 
                              How long must I hide?

No, little artist, I whisper 
   hand on chest, 
        cheek on hand
I'm just here to admire. 

Walk when you're ready.
But if you must, still, 
     then hide.

Written Thursday, July 20 2023