by Antonia Clark


They rouse us, wild dogs
baying past midnight,
a pack intent on its quarry,
fixed on a single line of sight.
The hounding carried out
under cover, a scene
unseen, its defenseless
denizen anonymous.
We turn from the window
to one another, old lovers,
practiced in our bodies' arts,
but in our hearts, we follow
them, both fearing
and longing for an end.
The woods give up
no news for the rabbit's
final cry is soft and brief
and the deer die in silence.

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