The Hunter of the Hills

The Hunter of the Hills


The mud and grass cry in passing;
A frozen squelch, a dirt-slick belch-
The night-life makes its crass endeavour.
But plants and weeds won't let it feed-
The noises move at nauseous speed
And echo across the mountaintops.
It knows it well, this rustic fell,
And when it hunts, the land feigns still-
The creature, too, is known.

Teeth like the nails in a loose scrap plank,
With the orange rust of poor oral hygiene;
They are not for chewing.
It will linger,
For a while.
Scan-
If you see it,
It saw you
A long time ago.

And if, and if, another stirs,
You’re not alone, and it prefers
The other creature,
Then you get to live-
But you have to live with it.
Memory is the price of life,
And very few escape in their dreams.

	It doesn’t tear your flesh itself.
	It just latches on.
	You are the one
	Who does that.

And sometimes, you might wake in the night,
Ripping at an arm or a leg
That is caught on nothing.