Hunt
By rokkitnite
Wed, 15 Sep 2004
- 1258 reads
After the count of three, they run;
smashing through
bracken, briars, snowdrops;
leaving prints, snapped twigs;
priming deadfall traps, laying caltrops;
scattering like lice.
They fear the gun.
The hunting party leave one
hour's grace;
they quaff ruby sherry and
plan,
trading strategems for stalking man.
With a
bugle blast, these foxes join the race.
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