Stag
The world has turned her shadowy face away from the sunken sun and the time of gloaming is now. A slim silver moon is falling into the sky glow. The chill sinking deeper with the dark. In the treetops a sudden flurry of wings in to roost. Final warbles from wren and robin. Then suddenly over the brow of the hill, lord of the woods following his autumn crown of antlers. Each step sure with strength and superiority. Wise eyes flicker a brief acknowledgement of ancient rites over rights. With ghostly camouflage he slips from view into the deep greenwood, as a last light lingers and then is gone and night has claimed sovereignty.
