10

The Hunt

The Tiger who is hunted is rarely
Seen, but often felt. I have felt you near
And grown hot with worry...could almost hear
You move, know your smell. But all too quickly 
   It and you were gone, no traces or marks
   Did you leave. But in the run of my mind,
   The tracks were clear in the darkness. I find
   Them and follow. I glimpse. I hold and hark
But never more that shimmers give a hint
Of your passing or the flash of your eyes
While seeking prey. Followed to your lair, lie
You inside, waiting for my step? A glint
   Tells me the trap has closed tight behind me...
   I do not run, for at last I have thee.