It Begs To Know
Yes, you are still a God.
You stalk the big game upon the high Sierra plain,
in your loincloth and long flowing mane.
A bushy fox tails hangs down from the back
and your moccasins tread the soft dirt.
Poised with your bow
you pick up the scent of a buck.
You quietly traverse 150 yards of earth
with the quickness and grace of a leopard.
You take a knee at the top of the hill
and lay your bow across your thigh.
Reaching back to fetch an arrow,
you eye the large rack
and a twitch starts in your cheek.
Your fingers automatically notch the spear
and shift to grip the line.
The tip first points to the heavens,
then you lower it
down to the heart of the magnificent beast.
A breath.
The shot is true,
the animal stiffens,
takes a step,
then falls.
When you arrive at its side
it stares at you
with a large, glassy, brown eye.
It begs to know.
The last remnants of life
steam from its black nostrils
in a sweet scent
that blows a small plume of dust from the ground.
