It is in the valley of the passions of mortals that I hunt,
My spear in my pocket
My eyes quick and knowing
My feet planting kisses in the cool green earth

I am hunting not for the table, but for food
Never to be dissected by tooth and fork

This food, it bounds
Fast and fleet feet take it
Far beyond the reaches of my meager spear
I have not the ability to capture more than the
Most scrawny of they

But capture it I do

And haul it, also,
Slung bleeding across my shoulders
To be taken and transformed from something wild
To something still quite wild
But tameable yet