Katrina Kaye

Trying to escape
the heat of June,
he sits watching
the moon when
he sees her.

She walks,
feet bare in tall grass,
body illuminated in midnight.

He approaches.
Yellow wildflowers
hide his gaze.

Her neck is exposed by
the breeze as young summer
plays in loose black hair.

He watches the air
move through her mouth,
into her throat and chest.

He holds his breath
as she expels her own.

He leans forward.
Her head turns sharply,
a wild animal catching
the scent of hunters
on the wind.

He freezes.
She stares.

A soft smile plays
at the corner of her lips.
He can’t speak, but feels a
tingle going up his spine.

He smiles and laughs.

She holds his gaze,
for one, two, three seconds.
Then, like the midnight moon,
she vanishes.

“Dryad” is previously published in Hazy Expressions (2006) and A Scattering of Imperfections (2009).