The Hunt

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Soft, wild, stretching shadows camouflage

The inhabitants of the canopy.

It’s dead,
The ants declare.

They crawl over a salty orange cap,

Onto smooth unmoving polyester,

And curiously onto the hunting rifle

With the dark finish.

Perching beside a bittersweet oak,

Captivated by a poisonous, solitary, almond tree,
Leaves crackle.

Primitive instincts

Fasten on weary eyes.

Solace, panic, chaos, and silence stir.

Cold, stiff, powerful

Muscles tighten
In the twilight,

Unblinking and squinting eyes lock,

Headlights at dawn,
Beaming in the blue morning.

Hollow hearts beat vigorously,

Gripped with the implicit

Wretched declaration–

Inside the hunter’s armpit,

An extension of her.

A calloused finger tenses,

Threatening a final consideration.

Doves and blue jays

Flock through clouds over blue skies.