Ancient Hunt Poem by David Welch

Moccasins crunching on crusted snow,
wolf-fur hood warming what I breathe,
jogging with lance and tomahawk,
other friends spread out, left and right.

The wapiti run before us,
big elk, eight or so moving,
no chance with fleetness of foot
to run down or diner out here.

They approach a wood bound by steam
and a corral we built last night,
funnel into a single, beige line,
when arrows slice through cold air.

A half-dozen of our tribesmen
let loose with stone-headed shots,
elk bleat and scream, some go down fast,
living ones trample them to flee.

Frantic milling, blood and hooves and snow,
then they're gone, dashing through the spruce.
Eight lay on the ground, two alive,
I plunge my lance to end one's pain.

Send a prayer to the creator,
words are vapor in the winter sky,
obsidian blades start to cut,
a runner is sent to the village.

All will help butcher this meat.