The Hunt

Panicked tiny footprints, zigzag, sharp; Each an arrow hungry for direction. Across them, newer, the fully-fledged Outlines of boots, strong, deep. Ahead, the bootprints side by side, Suddenly, decisively: imagine the arms. Further on still, the arrows stagger, Stop, and fading blood reds the way. This is the tale the snow tells, Along the ugly, thorn-jagged hedge. Its record is brief, the warmer winds Of oblivion will sweep in, soon, too soon.