The Hunt
She lays in the long grass of the meadow,
Taut with anticipation,
Tired from the hunt,
Remembering the hurts of the past and the lessons learned.
The deceptively soft nose twitches; five directions at once.
Catching scents from yesterday and today.
Picking up the passion scent
from within the stench of broken dreams.
The knowing of things
The collector of information
Of scent
Of sound
Of the indefinable knowing that is instinct.
The direction of the wind upon her coat
Does it’s best to misdirect and lead astray.
Sounds echo around in a discord of noise.
And yet each note is heard clearly and distinctly
Signaling the nature of those who howl unknowingly at the moon.
Pretending that they understand.
Her padded feet contact the soil
And feel the rhythm of the earth
That signals each approaching possibility.
Vision is the last.
Encompassing that which has been sensed.
Information into a kaleidoscope of sensory perception.
That spins seemingly patternless
And the murmurs of a million secrets.
To one who heeds the intuition
Formed from experience
And freed from hindrance
By the possibility of dreams.
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