The Rabbit in The Hunting Trees

The hushed hue

Of the everglades

Captures the over still morning

The light wavers

Soaked in mist

So as to hide

That which lurks within

Those dark and strange creatures

That watch between

Homely stone

And hunting wood

The worried eyes

Of the hunted

Watching back

Watching back

And so not forward looking

Until the land gives way

To the unforgiving rocks below

That open their maws with glee

Grinding up and spitting out

The feast that provides no sustenance

Merely the heady sense of power

Over life and death.

A bit further down the green

Is a markerless grave

Be careful not to

Step in it.