During the day he is alone

And stalks the secret paths

Of the forest.  He has made

His hunter's tool of a stick,

A sharp stone and vines,

Listens for the falling of

Soft pads from where grass

Is a trampled circle, follows

The scat and scent of animals,

Knows the different tastes

Of meat that feeds his hunger,

Blood that slakes his thirst,

Wears their fur as his own.

At night huddling in a clearing

With his kind, feeding the fire

With what is near at hand, he

Watches yellow eyes following

Him from the deep shadows,

Waiting for the fire to ember,

Making their patient sounds,

As he strikes the small drums

Of their skin with their bones

As if intoning a shared language,

As if there were common ground

Between the light and shadows,

As if hunter were not the hunted.