Two Hunting Poems

and we are not the quarry,

and we are not the One In Charge.

We are not the quail

flushed from a thicket of briers,

not the vultures overhead,

their black wings carving

circles against fierce blue,

not the three, white-tailed deer

bounding away from the path.

We are not the thorn tree,

nor the red bud piercing into bloom,

not the improbable geometry

of the fallen rock wall,

not the geese in formation.

We are not the sound of the horn,

not the crack of the whip.

We are not the sighting,

not the scent,

not the kill.

Blood Sport Sabbath

The hounds are wild.

One coon treed, its mate burrowed

in the brush pile and screaming, they claw

through dead branches, collapsed wire fencing,

briers, old lumber. They howl

their bloodsong, insensible

to the litany of sired names, the command

to Leave it! They find

purchase in a ringed tail,

drag the creature to the surface, tear

into meat and fur until the crack

of the huntsman’s pistol quiets

all but the wind breaking in the winter trees.

The dogs stand down, obedient

under the huntsman’s strange patter,

and scatter, snuffle the damp ground

for new quarry, the scent rising

in the warm afternoon. We follow

in a ragged line, uneasy

about the weather. We know

that the day should be colder, mercy

more certain, that there is no

getting right with this god.