by Leslie Schultz
Orion, with his starry belt and club,
looms over my house this late autumn eve,
strides with his dog, as if whistling toward his pub,
cozy with constellatory make-believe,
ideas we embroider on the sky—
linking stars that chance to lie next door
into silhouettes as wide and deep and high
and long as history itself—or before—
back then when hunters tracked the star-tailed hind,
as she fled across the reddened fallen leaves,
hoping they’d startle her hart, so hard to find
when the sun has set and the dark moon grieves.
Those hunters’ shadows, cast upon the sky,
live on long past the orphaned fawn’s lost cry.