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.