Every night my father
becomes a part of the forest.

His dark green hunting
boots creep
up the trunk of his leg
the way moss
does to a live oak.

He is a faint bird call
that disappears
in the wild brush.

He finds a home
in the shadows
with the animal ghosts.

His hunting dogs
chase after the night.

They reach out
past him in their blinking collars,
across the dark woods
in a movement
of light
that hasn’t
been expressed

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