Curare Tipped Death Poem by Gordon D Wilkinson

Stealthily tracking
Searching the canopy above
Eyes watching for the slightest movement
Branches quiver at the edge of sight
Faint movements
Rustling of leaves
He stands statue still
Eyes betraying life
Watching
Waiting
Barely breathing
Pipe loaded deftly
Curare tipped
Swung arcing into position
So silent, so deadly
A sharp intake of breath
Lungs filled to maximum
He blows
Hard and quick
The missile launched
His aim unerring
Injecting his quarry
The tribe will eat tonight
Just another day in the office
Living off nature’s bounty
Keeping the longhouse stocked
This head-hunter’s only mission
Here in Borneo’s untamed jungle