Unseen, except by eyes which can’t
articulate their fright – a dull sheen
resurging on mottled-green skin you
glide in the night, head arcing side
to side – searchlight seeking a small
source of body heat, nostrils alight.
I know your name; you are the last
privateer, the scourge of the relic forest,
the fiftieth tree row and on into the wild
tangled spaces beyond. I am damned
if I please you with a feast, a morsel no
more than a bite- sized, well-fed chicken –
it’s anguished heart beating furiously;
its peers aflutter, unsure whether to
flee or hide in the fluffed-up feathers
of an exemplar mother. I don’t see
you thief but I know you well
by the way you die.
© 4 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
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