The Hunt
Slithering through the moonlit field
A tiger king’s paws grow heavy, but silent;
Eyes burning green in the darkened shadows
While its tail curls quietly back and forth
As if to guard an environ of wildlife,
The breeze caressing a feline’s strong fur
On a night gentle as its movement, lithe .
Ears alert through the stillness of the grass,
The beast picks up an unfamiliar sound,
A quiver among thistles, a crawl along new leaves
Smelling danger alive in the humid mist…
Then, one click. A second thud , how quick!
Until hunters draw nearer signalling a fire
Of rifles in breaking blasts and roars…
It’s body arched till limbs wobble
Yet steadily, the king rises, leaping into the air;
That with a final pounce and agile crush,
Hunters become the game… mangled , dragged
In a territory where man is the outsider,
Forgetting the power of nature’s rites.
11/5/2016
For Casarah Nance: The Hunt Contest
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