To throw magic around hunters:
the fox knows the forest better than fear does,
double back tracking its trail
to confuse the blood-thirsty hounds,
to outsmart the tracker’s own feet.
Deer zigzag escape routes, wildly
turning the hunter’s map into a maze.
In the shadows and moving slowly,
the bear crosses pines where the footprints
don’t show.
Magic in the evolution of owl wings,
sound eliminated, leaving the hunter bereft;
and in the teamwork of a dolphin pod,
some distract, while others turn and slip away.
Don’t forget the magic in
camouflage, stillness, the decoy.
No matter the day, I root for the wild
breath hiding in the trees, the too-fast
heartbeat in the brush, the startled wings.
Like them, don’t we all want to live,
wouldn’t we all whisper not to be heard,
or sprint to survive?
I know there’s no miracle
with the gun in human hands,
the trap hidden in brush and needles,
the net cast across the sky.
I know I am a fool to keep faith
in the cunning, the astute, the shrewd,
my allegiance forever to the ones who get away.
