The Hunt

The forest at dusk is a prison of shadows,
souls fleeing with hearts beating in panicked flow.
The trees are bars, trapping us in a hell that lingers,
their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers.

The birds’ cries have become our demise,
their freedom songs now mocking caws, right to life a lie.
Creatures of the forest trapped in an inescapable plight.
Eyes glowing like demons in the fiery half-light.

The leaves rustle, the branches sway.
the birds or our hearts will give us away.
The fairy tales of blood and fire, and absence of sun
No longer a tale, for the hunt has begun.

As the darkness on the forest begins to lay,
we know we are the hunted, the prey.
For the hunter has invaded our space.
Twigs snap in angry protest; munition clicks into place.

We hide, cry, and pray with all we have left,
hoping to escape the cruel fate ahead.
The dusk-covered forest smells of gun-powdered death.
Mom, I lov… his life gone before he could hit send.

Tomorrow we’ll receive thoughts and prayers
followed by deafening silence and no repairs.
And the hunts will continue despite those who fall
because the hunters’ rights matter most of all.