Thrill of the Hunt

 

With a stance of stone and the eyes of an owl

he follows his prey - not moving.

Watching each move, each turn, each posture -

he’s performing the cull.  He’s choosing.

 

Several considered.  Each catching his eye

with something that stirs his emotions

to take flight, to give chase, to pursue that prey,

yet these are incomplete notions.

 

Ever still he stands - waiting ever on

for that “thing” that will trigger his action,

not knowing himself for what he searches

that will stir his instinctual attraction.

 

The thrill of the Hunt is enjoyed by all,

whether sitting alone or with others,

whether indulging spirits in the corner pub

or in the market with children and mothers.

 

For the hunt is a sport, which can be played

without consent of the prey.

It can be played long and hard in the heat of the night

or innocently in the light of day.

 

It involves the chase, sweat, emotions and energy,

or simply a glance over cup.

An eyebrow lifted is all it takes

to be guilty and, by the Hunt, corrupt.

 

So to those who look along their noses

at others engaged in the chase,

remember well that the road to hell

is lined with the bones of the chaste.

 

And that those with sweat dripping from their brow from pursuing prey as they please,

are no more guilty than you or I,

for the Hunt is played out each time there’s a chase, a capture, and a kill;

or when there is lifted, over cup, the simple brow of an eye.

 

July 17, 1992

 

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