The Hunter

Half-light,
pulled close around the ferns,
as I wade through dusk swamps of ivy,
walking, rushing,
swatting lace-webbed kingdoms
drawn between cedar tendrils,
down to the base of the creek,
the silver rush of mud and fallen leaves
where the owl watches,
her wings two striped arches
unfolding silently into the air,
an arrow bound for the soil,
for the slick white back,
wet with dew,
of a mouse,
tucked into one talon
and pulled toward the feathers,
the beating warmth and black eyes,
the light slipping darker,
and darker.