Quiet whitetails
never breaking a branch,
they blazed the trails
behind our house,
split the thick brush
around the pond.

We saw them
in the mornings,
with dew-damp legs,
moving through the fog.
Sometimes at dusk
they’d walk across
our drive, my mother
pointing to the fawn.

Their stories must have
all been simple,
their bones light as air,
brought to life in a forest hum,
returning to earth:
someday a hip bone
or leg brushed beneath
the leaves.

Travis Truax earned his bachelor’s degree in English from Southeastern Oklahoma State University in 2010. After college, he spent several years working in various national parks out West. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flyover Country, Quarterly West, Pinyon Review, The Flagler Review, and The Eastern Iowa Review. Currently, he is in Bozeman, Montana.