The Sound of Hunting

The Sound of Hunting

He mixed words
from old books
with images he created
in his head
trekking slowly
along the meandering game trail,
following day old tracks
and vague promises
left scattered in his dreams.

His spear and hooks were sharp yet his mind was dulled and brittle.
His hands were cold and coarse
He was tiring
as he slowly moved
through this endless day
a day far too hot
for him to be so cold,
with no relief
in sight.
from what hunted him.

He stopped, turned and looked back,
He could feel eyes watching him
He knew he had to make
tobacco, old time magic,
not for smoking
or prayer
but to sprinkle upon the path
behind him
to hide all evidence
of his passing.

The roles were always
between the hunter
and the hunted.
The man knew
he would only feel safe
when he was invisible.

Michael Robinson artist/poet