A doe. A deer—a white-tailed deer—
walks carefully down a wooded path.
Branching fans of magenta leaves
drape from basalt-like boles,
slender trunks spaced at intervals
like terrestrial stalks of corn.
The doe stops. Her head comes up.
Her wet nose twitches twice, thrice,
to tell her what eyes cannot sense
through the thin cerulean mist.
The doe raises a tripartite hoof
momentarily, and sets it down again.
A sound. Her head swings right.
Through ranks of slate-grey stems
she catches a fractaled glimpse
of the predator she’s learned to dread:
bipedal, mostly clad in woven fabric,
weapon dangling between its legs.
She is not alone. In another world,
an alternate and parallel universe,
creatures might not have daily fear
of such humanoid sexual predators.
In an alternate and idyllic world.
But certainly not our own.