Hunt

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.