|Oct/Nov 2012 Poetry|
I scorn the small weak people in the town
I walk the wood in confidence and power
I am a crushing bolt that strikes men down,
The rage upon the trail; pale hikers cower
At Puma when I scream up in the pines
And coward Dog strains at his leash and whines
And even prudent Bear decides to seek
Sweet berries on a farther, safer creek.
The world turns warm, I drowse on ledges high
Above my world of peaks; my world of prey.
My belly's full, and only Crow comes nigh.
I'll lie and laze away the summer day:
For now I need not tell the creatures that
I am no mewling thing; I am the Cat.
He's up at five, drinks coffee, takes his pack
And gun and sled and drives miles up the road.
Dawn breaks above as he walks into the wood,
Pulling the sled through early autumn snow.
He climbs two miles upwind on summer's track
And thinks of June, oblivious to his load
And sudden smells the elk. The moment's good;
He drops to the snow, leaves pack and sled, and slow
Crawls up the aspens, cradling rifle: ahead
Ten cows, no bull; he fires at the nearest, hits;
The others flee. He carves her, loads the sled
With the carcass; but he leaves some bloody bits
For ravens and coyotes to come feast
As the cold sun rises heartless in the east.