Doe Will Return Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

The jungle tonight is a silvered bowl,
moon-spilled and awake.
Every leaf drinks light; every breath is dew.
A hush so deep it rings like silence after prayer.

By the waterhole the doe and stag
stand mirrored, nose to nose,
two dark commas in a sentence of light.
Clouds drift—slow commas across the moon—
and shadows thicken, then thin again.

From branch and burrow, from stripe and spot,
the others watch:
monkey, leopard, tiger, lion, mouse—
a congregation without creed,
held in the same spell.

They do not see the men
crouched behind the reeds,
rifles oiled, torches banked,
breath held like a secret.

Love loosens the deer.
They lean, they tremble,
lost in the small eternity of each other's eyes.
Moonlight strokes their flanks;
palm shadows sway in a slow dance;
a monkey nips its mate in play;
the pond's skin shivers, breaking the moon into coins.

Far off, in the camp,
fires lick iron pots.
Spices hiss. Plates wait.
Men speak in low, hungry syllables
of tenderloin, of haunch,
their tongues already tasting salt and smoke.

Soon.
A single crack will split the night.
The stag will fold, surprised.
The doe will bolt, a white comma erased.
Dark shapes will rise from the bushes,
drag the warm weight home.

Dawn will find the camp asleep,
bellies full, knives dull.
The jungle will stir as always—
birds, breeze, the same old sun.

Only the doe will return,
stepping soft to the water's edge,
searching the blank reflection.