The Huntress

I stand, furred, on all fours, Alone with the moon, As snowy as my owl companion, Who is off in search of some snack of his own. At my feet a blood-white hare, Long-footed, well-fatted, nearly tailless from our brief encounter. I offer up a simple melody of thanks To the spirit I am about to consume Along with the meat that will sustain me For yet another night of melancholy. But the prayer becomes a pitiful plea. Is there no one in the night like me? Must I always hunt alone In these nameless ravines? Slinking through thickets, Ready to spring on any warm-blooded thing That happens to cross my path. Is survival all there is to life? I let out in a plaintive wail. But as my own note dies, A new voice rises Far in the distance Muffled by the snow-laden trees, But still distinct. I hope! I prick my ears! I hear you! I reply! My vocal sigh entwining with yours. Your notes rise higher. Punctuated by the fall of your feet on the crunchy crust of snow As you approach. I wait. Our feast bleeding out at my feet. You appear, as black as the night, As black as I am white, A fearsome beast. My knees go weak. You mount me. I allow it. I howl. You groan. It is over. We feast. We sleep. Nose to tail in a ring, Yin and Yang in fur. Love, feast, is circle