Soft Fern

-March 31st, 2014 11:47am a Monday morning

The twig breaks in the silence,
I am not alone.

Can I hear it listening?
Mutually aware of the sonic spectrum.
I rustle no waves for the moments duration.
Until it snorts a puff of air.

Clear nostrils, viable for fresh scent.
Am I fermented in disclousure?
My mouth open, tongue tastes the rainy wind.

The creature stirs, feeling safe,
I confirm the vector of its direction.
Its trajectory falls within my range,
I repeat its name to time our intersection.

There is only the spring, the jolt, the lunge.
In momentum with awareness catching up,
It sees me, with only gasps of a reaction,
and I am upon it.

Fierce in my grasp,
Futile in escape,
Flawed in its significance.

I promise to make it useful.
Jaw wrought flesh to render,
consumed without regret.

I swallow my ambition,
and sustenance is without reward,
just necessary to be.

I am never satisfied.
I am not alone.
Hunt.