In a fallow breath she captured his eye.
Imagining in a moment, a blink in his disguise.
The sound of the drums didn’t reach quite so far.
And what of the poet – Nevermind.
Spotter at perch, etched just-so.
A shadow of a shade, of a shot.
With all she has– these words are met.
‘How could you use a poor maiden so?’
In fallow breath, perhaps your last.
Ready to act, or steal your sight.
‘Tis child’s play to seek, but to hide?
Only the mark, and the marksman would know.
— the seagull? oh, he was just there…