The Hunter

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The Hunter

In the flashes and black shadows

of July

the days, locked in each other’s arms,

seem still

so that squirrels and colored birds

go about at ease over

the branches and through the air.

Where will a shoulder split or

a forehead open and victory be?

Nowhere.

Both sides grow older.

And you may be sure

not one leaf will lift itself

from the ground

and become fast to a twig again.