Cold

By Cliff Lake

 

Cold

 

I am hunted.

When I need rest,

The trail goes cold.

My dog is a great help,

As are the binoculars,

Shadows,

The sun in their eyes,

And their smoking fires.

Such arrogance.

There four rifles to them,

A stupid weapon now,

A noisy tool telling your place.

The silent dart takes the unwary,

Saying nothing until the body is found.

Cold marker.

Tales of a ghost in this wood are mine.

 

The collapse was swift.

Disasters rose,

Markets fell.

Pandemics consumed,

Armies emptied populations

And each other.

When the power went out,

Mercy and compassion went with it.

In the new dark militias arose:

Gangs of vicious desperates

Siezing the weapons caches,

Claiming mandate until dying in their turn,

Slaughtered by like gangs stronger,

Or perhaps hungrier.

Ubiquitous attritions.

Cold charity.

Less than a decade yet past,

The bullets nearly gone,

The fuel used up,

Tanks and planes dead and useless.

Deep forests with hidden places,

Peopled by rustics gone to ground,

And lone survivors walking

Have gone cold, cold.

 

The armed camp near has recruited more raiders,

Some thirty again,

But no new guns.

Their scouts pass below.

They follow the trail signs I have scattered.

Soon they will see the fires of my trackers.

I have put the scouts of the hunters to awares.

Perhaps two or three of each set will survive.

Not long.

They will not survive long.

I do.

I survive.

Cold.

 

Cliff Lake 4/17/2025

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2025

Location: Wichita, KS, USA

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