The Huntress Poem by James McLain

I stand, furred, on all fours,
Alone with the moon,
As snowy as my owl companion,
Who is off in search of some snack of his own.
At my feet a blood-white hare,
Long-footed, well-fatted, nearly tailless from our brief encounter.

I offer up a simple melody of thanks
To the spirit I am about to consume
Along with the meat that will sustain me
For yet another night of melancholy.

But the prayer becomes a pitiful plea.
Is there no one in the night like me?
Must I always hunt alone
In these nameless ravines?
Slinking through thickets,
Ready to spring on any warm-blooded thing
That happens to cross my path.
Is survival all there is to life?
I let out in a plaintive wail.

But as my own note dies,
A new voice rises
Far in the distance
Muffled by the snow-laden trees,
But still distinct.

I hope!
I prick my ears!
I hear you!

I reply!
My vocal sigh entwining with yours.
Your notes rise higher.
Punctuated by the fall of your feet on the crunchy crust of snow
As you approach.

I wait.
Our feast bleeding out at my feet.
You appear, as black as the night,
As black as I am white,
A fearsome beast.
My knees go weak.

You mount me.
I allow it.
I howl.
You groan.
It is over.

We feast.
We sleep.
Nose to tail in a ring,
Yin and Yang in fur.
Love, feast, is circle