The Hunt

At dusk
in the brittle,
breaking brush,
I am hunted.

With the turns of the trail,
I feel him behind me,
maneuvering,
waiting
for the right moment.
I speed up.

Fall air slaps me,
the last of the day’s light squeezes
over the river,
winking beside me,
wishing me best of luck
as I press forward.

Keep moving,
keep pressing,
he could fire a shot,
but if I keep moving,
it may not hit me.

Browned leaves stir
at my feet
and the damp
deflated mushrooms
fill the air with decay.

Birds shriek in flight,
fleeing to somewhere quickly,
running out of time.

Fleeing
along the overhang
of the river, dodging
tundra
tufts
and branch
traps, pressing
not to fumble.

I don’t hear him.
I stop.
Listen.
Where is he?

“Hey, is there a fire?”
he asks from somewhere
unexpected.

I jump like a hare.
Keep moving.
“Slow down.”

He comes up to me.
All his pine-scented masculinity
comes up to me.
His hands are empty.
He places them on my shoulders,
points past me,
and says gently, “Look.”

I see a porcupine high up,
suspended
impossibly
in the wisp of a tree,
bristly and still.

She is a scraggily scuttler,
clawed and awkward,
alone,
innately tooled
for defense and distrust,
proclaiming fear
in an armor of nettles.

She is naïve, like me.