At each turn
nothing but unearthed arrowheads
point the way.
It lurks –
simply put.
Does one not breathe?
Or maybe all too well,
finally.
I stare down,
I’ve seen these feet before.
Tiptoes,
usually
graceful
exits.
Sometimes I click,
flitter and sputter.
Just so long
that you saw
is enough.
© Chagall 2014
