The brush moves and my aim does not waver.
Foraging there, on the rim of the pond
A sounder of wild boar brings a shiver
And the grunts and the squeals that I have spawned.
From the thicket a sow charges and bites;
Bleeding, I climb to the limb of a tree,
As razorback frenzy welcomes the night -
Now I am prey and pray to be free;
That the morning light will find the beasts gone,
Or that others not find the scent of my blood,
Or that tied to this tree, will I last long -
Will infection and pain rush in a flood.
Or, like a wounded deer in the thicket
Will I die and be eaten within it...