A flash somewhere, then suddenly

ponds that sprout starflower and shrub,

jasmine and beard lichen, spreading white fingers.

Rustling — here comes a net of curved horns

crisscrossing against each other, sturdy,

brown scythes moving slow.

 

The herd stops and looks. Now the world

is calm. See — no steps. Only the wind

pushing a branch caught on another branch.

And then soft screams. They rise from

little mouths wet with mucus and tears.

The wild goats weep like a drone of hornets.

 

There — on the ground between grasses

and hooves, there spreads another pond.

Crimson, carmine, precious. Red sulphur

painting the dull rocks till they shine

like gold. Skinny legs set at hard

right angles, piled up unnaturally still.

 

Tan yellow fur ripped from skin

by a canine tooth and jaw — it dusts

the stone like fresh fallen snow.

Then, up the plain comes

the howling of hounds, a death song

kept by the beat of horses punishing stone.

 

Wild horns scatter far. Back to the jasmine

and dwarf trees to cool craggy springs.

Back to hiding from the hunter. But the

hunter comes each day for a new mark.

The herd shrinks and shrinks, till one day

the wind finds only itself.