The Day of the Hunter
The birdsongs are falling to silence
no chirping from the Wren
only the thunderous baying of the Hound
a Hunter is coming to the glen.
The Great Hart no longer frolicking
hiding in marsh and meadow
left lounging beneath yellow birch tree
attended by his favored Doe.
Bright eyed and bushy tailed
eagerly avoiding the dealings of Men
trout, hanging from his jaw
the Fox is scampering for his den.
Massive head bending to the trail
indifferent to the strange hush
his whole mind fixating on the chase
the Hound is tearing through underbrush.
The Wren chirruping in her nest
wings flap a hysteric flutter
breaking for the blue sky
does not spy the hunter.
Carrying a noise like death
he hides, belly to the ground
desiccated husks of grass scratching his chin
with the end comes that sound.