The Sasquatch squats, flowers in hand,
on an old stump by the riverbed.

She’s not coming. He knows that by now
but he stays put—tracing circles in the dirt
with his big toe.

Overhead, the birds sing their condolences.
A fox passes and offers a bite of dead squirrel.
The monster politely declines.

As the sun tucks itself behind the horizon,
his eyes close, his chin meets his chest,
and the flowers slip from his grasp.