Canned Hunt

Bushveld trophy
“The Dark Continent”
  old dreams
Hemingway, Roosevelt, Fred Bear
   and the yearn for a head
   for the black mane 
   upon a wall
Dangerous game
   (cupcakes play at chess)
375 caliber
hunting the Big Five
   the lion, leopard,
   elephant, white rhino,
   and cape buffalo
Kwa-Zulu Natal and Tanzania
   Tags and SAPS 520 forms
    all ready
for the tremble of anticipation…
for the arrhythmia of terror.
A bow that draws 80 pounds
   carbon steel 2.8
   two cutting edges
All ready for the game take-down

Dawn with black coffee
   and fresh baked rusk
into the sun-teased, dark morning
   and its premonition of heat
   boots to the ground
   armed and ready  - walking
Around us, they laugh, armed, swaggering
   dusty track, tall grass, and bush savanna
A climbing sun and heat mirage 
  sand that irritates eyes and crusts noses
  eyes downward scanning for tracks
  nervous corners and hard light into mid-morning.
Brunch - thick food and sharp liquor - lazy heat
A call back to the business at hand
   They ambush, those who swagger
   A stiff price of $25 grand for the trophy
   moves them along
The air is stiff and stale 
The flies are sound and 
their sudden, subtle silence is warning
Plate sized prints, unmistakably fresh
     The silence of the group
          as we move forward
     the silence of the pads
        of this 500 pound beast as he walks
      The silence of the steamy afternoon
         and its line,
         which separates life from death
         stalker from prey.
Heart pounding adrenaline
The smell and a springbok antelope carcass
  The rattling groan
  The cracking and tearing of flesh
  Meat to teeth, blood on fur
And That face that turns…
   He stares, yellow-eyed
   and nonchalant
He watches disdainfully, but tense
His roar, brain stopping
A whisper (or was it a shout?)
         NOW!
The gun kicks hard against shoulder
He charges, not really, the shot
and others, take him down 
   The big-boned cat shivers
   and twitches until he stops
   eyes open. 
All pats on the back, all applause, all smiles
The win, cuts made, and flesh torn
Blood on the endless dirt
A head, a mane for the mantle
  above the ebony vase and ivory carvings.

Along the Kalahari sand, the runner
like his forefathers and theirs 
   bare feet to hot burning ground,
   a hunter
   going home.
Spear in hand,
eyes downward
No food today.