Piercing and keen, unbending eyes
hold no mercy for life grown tame,
content to surfeit on mill-ground mash.
Perfectly poised, back straight,
she turns her head and idly marks
a mote of dust in gleaming gold.
Sly, steely eyes backward glance,
and gauge her aim from point to home.
Removed, naive of primal ways,
this yearling knows the world is safe.
Lanquid, incurious half-closed lids
stupidly mark the bow. Then,
transfixed, he listens; an arrow whirs ~
(ironic diversion to him.)
Forgotten instinct might have warned
of pain that truth and knowledge give.
Caught off guard, bewildered eyes
mirror surprise and fume, "No fair!"
Head thrown back, our marksman laughs
(a sporting laugh) "Oh yes!
All's fair in war, and truth and life ~
and had you been left to your own,
you might have lived and never yearned
to forage spice from moss and loam."