The Sportsman

Forest crowding around him
Each tree shading him as he passed
The gypsies were on the move.
Ratuana
That damn song of the revolution
“Oh the great sit on their thrones
As we sing to the ruler of all
Mother of our fore-fathers
Lives among our brother
The wolf
He sings to the moon.”
Twenty-three of them.
He had counted
Two miles back when they had
Broken for water.
Ratuana.
That damn song of the revolution.
“And the owl
The wise owl
She sings with our song
She knows the words
Better than We.
Sing owl.
Sing to your mother the forest.”
One was struggling to keep up.
Ignored by the others.
Now was the time to strike.
That damn song.
“Sing brothers and sisters
Of the life we have
Here among the forest
The Great Mother
Welcomes us into her home!
Sing brothers and sisters!”
He fed an arrow into his bow.
He could feel the heartbeat, hear the animal’s cry to “wait, slow down.”
Soon it wandered off.
Then pop.
Gone.
Twenty-two.
“Sing brothers and sisters!”