Large Beasts Are Likely

A many-tined hart
On the side of the road
Head tilted in shadows,

A cellist on a chair
In the long-grass meadow
Against the ruddy cliffs,

And the photographer
Who posed the cellist—notes
From the cello unnerve

The deer. He tilts his head,
And his tines catch the sun,
And the cellist looks up,

Smiles, and points with his bow,
Which ends up as the one
Shot the photographer

Really likes. Forgive us,
That part was imagined,
But no large beasts were harmed.