Across the glistening wooded terrain,
And over the tawdry and now fallen bunting,
He strides.
Alone, but whole,
Unsure, but hopeful,
He makes his move.

An interloper,
A bandit,
A snake in the grass,
He stops at the watering hole to refresh himself,
Ever mindful that he’s being watched.
On the move again, he skillfully adjusts his gait, adding to the moment’s mystery.

The air is rife with possibilities,
Yet riddled with adversaries.
He slinks across the target area,
Like a specter in a landscape,
Unnoticed by some and keenly sensed by others.
Clad in his borrowed covering, he is ever his own.

©2003 by John L. Fischer


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