We know of danger from our first breath
We know it follows from life to death
‘Tis the life of prey, and this we know
So long as we live, it will never go
So long as the herd keeps its head
It can stand to leave a few for dead
So when the hunter’s howl is heard
No alarm runs through our ample herd
Mother lay near, as she always does
She ushers us toward the other calves
A huddle is made around us now
So that no predator may get past
We hold firm to the center as we always have
Til we may grow our horns
The elders keep close in tight defense
From the wolves approaching forms
Though this scene is one we all know well
I can’t help but wonder what they may do
These wolves have an odd way they walk
And Mother has noticed it, too
“Smells naught of a wolf”, says Mother unto me,
“But looks of a wolf, so it ought to be”
Nonetheless, we stand strong as we always have before,
Although weariness spreads quickly as a festered sore,
We know this presence is wolf and nothing more
But Mother did not see what I had before
The look of their eyes, long dead to the bone
As though they traversed this land alone
Mayhap these wolves are wrong in the head?
To walk so uneven and to smell of the dead?
Fur barely clinging to their rough, pale skin
Even Mother snorts at the “trouble” we’re in
No wolves so lame could be hunters worth caution
With unblinking eyes and limbs slow from exhaustion
So why should we not graze? Why not continue our fares?
We have seen all there is; we know of their tricks
Not even the babes could be caught unawares!
But Mother did not see what I had before
Such pale skin belonged not to wolves or dogs of any form
It stalks, as a wolf does,
But it calls as a wolves does not
They gather as wolves do,
but they stand as wolves do not…
…Yes, they stand as we do not
It rolls its shoulders
Up, and down, and back again
Limbs appear longer as they extend
In some angular pose, as though to attack,
Such un-wolfish paws pull its own head back
But there is no scream; its neck doesn’t snap
The other wolves follow; prying open their jaws and reaching within
So I can’t help but ask Mother, “Does a wolf shed its skin?”
And before we can gather once more in defense;
Before we can realize the wasted time spent,
They are upon us like wolves but of a much deadlier breed
And that is when we know, far too late to flee,
that the hunters were hunted, and so are we.
Author’s Note:
My poem “The Hunt” was inspired by a short video I once saw that described a highly specific method of hunting wild buffalo used by the Plains Indians, also known as the Native Americans who lived and traveled across the Great Plains of pre-colonial North America. I have always admired those who can incorporate suspense or horror into their writing without the audio or visual tools that movies can easily utilize. This poem was my first attempt to unite a historical concept and Native tradition with modern, suspenseful storytelling from the view of the prey rather than the predator.
Aayah Vickers | 17 | Durham, NC
