White Snow, Red Blood
An early dusk, a light dusting of snow;
Visibility is good, the moon golden and low;
The ranchers are pacing in Italian leather boots,
warm fur-lined parkas and their Hummers locked tight;
They are such daring sportsmen to take on the night!
They recheck their rifles, squint through their scope;
take to the air, rifles ready, senses sharp;
“Today I saw some really big tracks,”
“That might even be the leader of the pack.”
Conversation is low, and then, down below
a flash of gray, a sharp crack,
White snow, red blood bleeding from the leader
of the pack.
Hours later, flushed and proud,
they raise their glasses in a toast
to the soft, gray fur by the fireplace;
Red blood on the snow doesn’t bother this bunch,
as they discuss where to take the mayor for lunch.
©Willow Rose 2011