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The Hunter
February 8, 2010
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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Am I prejudice....absolutely...!