The wind moves the leaves.
The sun rises.
A scout crow caws.
A bluejay squawks.
I am trying to conjure
up a deer in my heart
to put before my eyes
so I can take a shot
but I think the pauses
between the words
of the incantation
are too short, do not
allow for the elongation
of meaning to seduce
the moment in its fullness.
My shaman says, “One
incantation a day. Tomorrow’s
another day.” Grins.
And I sit in a natural
blind starlings overhead
in the branches, know
sometimes the magic
works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Think I may be caught
in some other incantation
the way I’m so hesitant
to leave the spot I’m in.
-Byron Hoot
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