Dance Of The Wounded Heart

Tread lightly through the forest branch Quiet wanderer, Disturb not the sleeping peace of cunning predator. Too soon the hunter’s horn will sound the death-knell of your tender breed. Lap quickly the nourishing drops that flow in freshets from a careless spring, Tarry not long to quench your thirst Lest your brittle life be fast extinguished In the hungry jaws of the lurking beast. Fly, fly at the sound of crackling leaf The scent of death upon the air. Stay not, wide-eyed in frozen fear To gaze upon a shadow poised with outstretched arm. One second lost and fire and thunder shall rip the dark Fly, fly Let not your russet coat be splayed with blood And tacked upon an unworthy wall— Tribute to the victor’s Indifferent hand Your proud rack hanging By a wire and a screw. (Previously published in ken*again, May 2001)