The Hunter

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

I watched old Orion slip
behind the tallest tree,

sly and careless with his craft,
trailing the shiny bow,

sword forged in a perfect heat: 
he had his pick of stars.

Maybe I am patient bait
for all his bloody dreams,

tethered out in full display
beneath this quarter moon.

For me the earth turns quick,
the measure of all things—

rising suns will conquer nights,
just to lose their place again.

My soul will wrestle dark and light

and every hour shall contend.

Empty wishes will upend
my few deserved delights,

and dreams shall be the death of me,

but only ‘til the dawn returns

and burns them to their flight.

So silly I must seem, and small,
now, to that keen eye—

the gaze of one who ever preys,

the vision that would gather all,

that one who never blinks.

But I shall see things come and go,

while he does stand a wicked age,

empty bag and silence there,

wondering why it should be so:

waiting, still, for their approach,

circling lion,
sleeping bear.

(A post for dVerse OLN and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads)