in the failing light we search with dimmed eyes
can the scent cling still to the air
the dogs whine and wish to return, the prize
uncaught and the horses toss their manes. unfair
to say the least, having tracked through woods thick
with brambles and thicker still with shadows long
only to have it disappear, a third rate magician’s trick
but we will track it by its song
as the now sun sinks below the line of trees
we hear it above our ragged exhalations
and the quiet humming of sleepy bees
we take up our arms, and greet the dark occasion
Words and Feathers 