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Bear Hunting
The hunter knelt to check the muddy ground.
He was perplexed. The tracks were heading north.
No bears had caves on this slope of the hill.
The quicksands were not very dangerous
but deep enough to block the wild beast.
The seasoned trapper smiled. The frightened bear
would be an easy prey, an effortless fur.
The huntsman stepped carefully through the scrubland.
He knew the thick bushes and thorny briars
could conceal venomous spiders or deadly snakes.
He was an ace. On the hilltop, the wind,
with fury, made the limbs of scattered trees
wave in a frantic and infernal dance.
The hunter saw the fearless bear — a king
presiding on a rock — staring at him.
He armed his rifle and picked up his cap,
fallen between the perfectly still weeds.
There was no wind. Not even a slight breeze.
He raised his head and realized with horror
that the dancing branches were the heads of
a hydra. The man tried to catch a knife.
But with his feet no longer on the ground,
he knew he was its helpless prey to strangle.
Copyright ©
A. Ormulyce
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