The heart is hunting alone and lean
after the things she thinks she has seen;
after meat on the doe not the sweetgrass sea
wind-combed in waves to wild-braided streams;
after the caterpillar's cuts and devours
not the greenstem-road to wings that it follows.
Her running breath catches at all the wrong times
at the taste of the dove, not the air it can climb.
The heart is hunting and so cannot fly
for that most alive is the thing which must die
too heavy to carrytoo sought to let lie.
But when the hunt falters, breath evens and slows.
When the hunter suddenly unstrings her bow
what was looked for is seen in a stillness of light;
shining like tears in the last hour of night.
posted for earthweal's
Images: Hunter, artist unknown, via internet Fair Use
Woman in Grass, © Fosco Maraini, via internet Fair Use