Autumn colored eyes flash in the fog choked bird-hop.
Whisper-feet drum the timber trussed trail
and the long, lean, powerful body ripples as a sail
that turns into the morning.
Curve of claw and truth of tooth hold sway;
a steaming spray of bovine blood forks free,
but, it's the stain of mother's eyes on me
that turns into the mourning.
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