Dripping Moon
The moon dripped like wax through
the canopy of the pines, light and
shadow were scattered across the
ground like playing cards.
The air was still, the scent of danger
there but difficult to locate, yet the
nostrils still twitched in mistrust.
In knowing that this is their time,
time to forage, snout and graze this
fertile floor, it is also realized that
this is the hour of the hunter, he
who walks with feet shod in death.
In the absence of scent sound is the
ally the startled bird a friend and the
passing cloud a closet in which to
hide.
Cloven feet tread the fern, in this
tranquillity all is fostering, caring,
the procedure of life has no pace
but always achieves its aim, natural
progression achieved by time and
adaptation, little gained by the ever
presence of man, more so the rigid
adaptability to the elements given.
Yes I walk the forest at night, not
with rifle or bow, but with my dogs,
dreams and respect.
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