The Hunt
The pronghorn, skittish,
dodge over the other side
of an arroyo. My rifle never
left my side. Thinking of you,
I lost sight of why I was there.
You don’t walk through the grassland
of New Mexico for pleasure, after all.
I don’t think of you for any
other reason. New Mexico
has its purpose and can keep it.
I put my sad, slumped shoulder
to mine.
Travis Cravey (he/him) is a maintenance mechanic in Southeastern Pennsylvania. He is an editor with @malarkeybooks and @versezine. He’s happy to show you his stories if you’re interested. He’s on twitter (@traviscravey) if you want to. This poem was published with permission from the poet. The poem first appeared on Cravey's personal Twitter account.
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