A Hunter's Song

Now in the moon of Mabon
as the harvest and the hunt
draw the man from the hearth
and the warmth of his woman’s
good thighs…

we will see.

The home fires will be lit
and Branta canadensis
searching for maize, wheat, barley or oats
will fall to the siren call
of love or lessened hunger
in fields once thought to be
sanctuary.

The home fires will be lit
and the stag will err
with his velvet horn tattered
in his musty rut
and soon hang
as a pendant
of hubris.

The home fires will be lit
and the drakes will denounce
their mother’s wisdom
in favor of fantasy
sweet nothings
and death
from double reeds
double guns
and breath moistened cocobolo.

The home fires will be lit
and the bruin
in avarice and desperation
will blunder into the brambles
where he’ll know the singing
bowstring too late
with the taste of berries mixing with blood.

We will see
again
the dance of hunted and prey
of ourselves in the fray
and wonder aloud about our fate
as the home fires burn bright
in our absence.