The Hunter

February 8, 2010
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A hawk soars through night’s cloudless sky,
Dropping a feather as it circles overhead.
A small red fox comes wandering by,
Strolling through some grass long dead.
He pauses to take a quick glance at me,
Quickens his pace, and trots out of sight.
It seemed like his face was filled with glee,
But mine was stern, ‘twill be a gruesome night.
The moonlight blazes on the hunter’s knife.
It cuts;
The poor red fox is drained of life.

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auntie anne said...
Feb. 26, 2010 at 12:23 pm
I love reading this poet's work. Inspiring and always fresh. <br /> Am I prejudice....absolutely...!
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