Just Us
by Rick Rayburn
Scent of pitch and decaying wet leaves
over coarse volcanic sands
above the black lake.
My wife’s shoulder rises with each breath,
as dawn’s stars dim above sugar pines, heavy
with pulling pendulous cones.
Damp splits night and day,
I lie, still, when
startled by unfamiliar breaths.
Shadowy figure hovers over me,
taller than manzanita.
Bear? Cougar?
Mule deer, a doe,
slim, erect ears flicker.
Her indifferent face fixes on me.
White-tipped tail sways,
she tears grass from the earth,
resumes the silent stare.
I search her wide eyes
for welcome at her lake. I whisper,
It’s just us.
I am in her solitary eyes.
Too intimate? She spins,
bounds into the forest.
My wife wakes,
laying her hand on my cheek.
White patch wraps Lassen’s peak.