by
David Shipton
When a wanted call from the wild part of this being
Vixen calling from the night, over the still, the deadly chill.
Prey confusion, in the moon lit forest floor, a whisper.
In the instant of a Winter night, gone and consumed
Painstaking, the desire to grow, to be free and to cease being the beggar
With this the gift of extinguished life, the goal is closer.
Tormented by lives struggle, the contemplation of the world is lost.
Only with the feeding frenzy will it return, like smells, and sounds to lure.
On the morning of a spring, when the world wakes to another struggle
Posted like the sentry guard he watches, new and fragile he waits
Till the dawn of night, the time of quite and causes fools
In the midst of the forest floor it ambles, with simple contemplation
With the whisper, the night is broken and the bird is fed.
Copyright(C) 1997 David Shipton