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I watch him come, stepping with elven grace, hooves entering and leaving the stream without so much as a splash.
Slanting sunlight through the branches gleams his flanks, polishes his high cheekbones, is swallowed in the darkness of his eyes. When he moves his head, light ricochets off his horns. I do not move or speak.
His cloven hooves cut deep into the moss, scoring the rich earth below the green carpet. It is no longer the friend of my childhood who stands there, but the forest god, the hooved and horned one beholding an intruder in his domain.

from "Cloven Hooves"