Light footed, spring-heeled, flag-tailed doe
She thinks, “I am alone”
And she lowers her head to graze
The hunter, orange-coated, smoke-smelling, hidden
He says to himself, “This is a healthy one”
And he shoots the doe
She is already dead, but her muscles tell her “run”
And she tries
She leaves a blood trail for the hunter to follow
(2/21/2014)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem