The doe's eyes darted
Wild and wide.
Legs trembling, the exertion of the chase.
The crack of twigs
And the whipping of leaves
Close behind.
Her intuition whispers,
The Cruel is catching, gaining.
Her breath a trailed smoke,
Visible inly in the strobes
That the moonlight will allow.
In her own head,
The sounds of strained breathing,
Metronomic rasps.
Her lungs screaming against the night air.
Her own heart, frantic and drumming.
Obeying her survival.
Each desperate thrum, feeling like the last.
This chaos is coded,
A programmed autonomy.
Instinctual and instant.
Yet somehow, amid the manic storm,
A vision appears,
Disconnected from panic.

A field, wind-swept and warm.
A morning glow through gentle mist.
The peripheral movement of butterflies.
Her mother grazing, at peace.
Through the fog clear branches manifest,
Proud stag's horns.
...
But the Cruel has closed...