THE PACK HUNTS
The pack merges together like shivering ghosts.
Each is a separately unique, killing machine,
but as a unit they are a most powerful host.
Ravenous with its’ steely determination,
the dizzying, wild scent of moose lies
tantalizing on the morning breeze.
Six large timber wolves glide gracefully
down a lonely forest path, intent on prey.
Sinister shadows slicing through the quiet,
morning stillness like poisonous, gray arrows.
Muskrats, squirrels, rabbits quiver in frozen fear,
but on this day their lives will be spared.
Upon the barren crest of a treeless, knobby hill
the pack magically splits apart on silent command,
rules of the hunt etched on golden eyes of the hunter.
Below, old and alone, a large bull moose
awaits its’ fate, but not without one last stand.
He will fight to the death per nature’s will.
Like a savage horde surrounding their victim,
the wolves circle, heads held low on massive necks.
Amber eyes glaring, grimacing mouths open,
deadly fangs gleaming at the anticipated kill.
The bull moose snorts, pawing angrily at the ground
as the Alpha lunges forward, death expected.
With life’s blood gushing from severed jugular,
heart of the moose beats on, struggling to survive.
The Alpha’s mate leaps for the tiring withers
as others attack the legs, impossible now to thrive.
The moose succumbs amid deadly shivers,
bowing to the law of nature, the battle all but over.
With his gray muzzle and fangs now stained a blood red,
he has tasted the spirit of a moose once more.
Hungry pack gathers around, awaiting their turn to feed.
The Alpha reaches skyward and howls in victory.
A soulful, haunting lament. A
call of the wild.
The Pack now fed, runs free!
© Kerry Marzock