Allan Rae

 Welcome to my online portfolio, home to selections of original writing, links to published work, photography, art, and the occasional editorial or research update. To contact me, feel free to send me an email from the contact page.

Welcome to my online portfolio, home to what I feel constitutes my best literary nonfiction, poetry, flash fiction, & photography, with links to my published work, as well as the occasional editorial or research update.

The Space Between Brown And Grey

It is snowing softly when
I drop you off a bit past 5 am. 
You offer coffee, not persisting
when I decline. Neither of us
warns against it, so I am back
on the road. My silent awareness
of being ill prepared to balance
slivers of dark and dawn proves
accurate, when in a flash, 
she appears.

Screech of brakes.

Swerve right.

Over-correct left.

Eyes close, bracing for an impact
that is not to occur.

A final lurch and the car stops inches
away.

The doe barely shudders.

Her massive chest heaving faster
than my count, its hair thick and
coarse, somewhere between brown
and gray I think, for no apparent reason. 
Then, for a moment nothing moves and
there is no sound; only the animal’s
breath on the night air, indistinguishable
from falling snow.

Both of us remain silent, still, each
seeming to take a measured appraisal
of the other while on this road we’ve
come to randomly inhabit.

Together.

Like a far from imperfect, yet somehow
equitable balance, as if the natural laws
governing expected domesticity
softened slightly.

The softening however, proves finite and
I think I see her eyelids quiver, when a
burst of light from below and behind breaks
the moment, and in less than a second she
is gone, leaping airborne, enveloped by cloak
and darkness of the treeline. The car passes, 
and in the first seconds of a pre dawn blue I
realize it is morning.

Aided by the amp of caffeine, I stay alert for
the drive home. Feeling oddly deflated, yet
strangely alone, I catch myself more than
once gazing at the picture in the rear-view
mirror. Of snow falling soft on the cloak of
a pine green tree-line.

The Neccessary Tension

On James Baldwin And Letting Go Of Whiteness