Hunters
Hunters
The darkness closes around him as the sun escapes the sky.
The deep wood goes silent as the birds bed,
Then rouses somewhat as the night hunters begin their
rounds.
The fox, the coyote, the wolf. Raccoon and possum,
Lightly treading, but the attentive ear may know.
Only the cats are silent.
The small cooking fire has long gone to ash,
He has no need of its warmth,
Nor of the attention it would attract.
The long wait begins as he waits for sign…
He too is a hunter.
He notes the passage of the nocturnal beasts,
They do not concern him,
He is no stranger here.
A curious lynx peers from behind a near tree,
Its eyes caught by the rising moon,
Only to swiftly disappear once it knows of his awareness.
He smiles to himself – they have played this game before.
The rustling forest now goes quiet, very quiet,
The night creatures have stilled their hunt,
Something is near, a hunter fearsome,
Too dark for this night, this place,
The thing he has been chasing is arrived.
With only the merest movement,
He readies the instrument,
There will be only time enough for one attempt.
Now it circles him, believing a prey has wandered in,
His breathing deepens, feigning sleep.
To his left now, it holds, unsure,
But ravenous –
It’s greatest weakness is the greed for the kill.
The silence is…
It rushes!
He holds, he holds,
He holds…
The instrument is deployed!
A flash!
A scream!
The familiar tearing sound as it is -
Caught.
It is contained.
A dark thing that has found a tear between realities,
Unholy, unclean,
Unwanted.
Tomorrow, he will bring it to the priests.
Tonight, he will sleep.
The rest of the hunters resume their rounds,
Though passing by in wider compass.
The wood is clean again,
Clean again for now.
Cliff Lake 1/14/2024
Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024
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