Tuesday, December 05, 2006

#226: December 5, 2006

There's something out here further up the chain
than you and me--it stalks these wind-worn trails
like some grim ghost, and no man here but pales
at the scream it looses every time it rains.

Joe Wilkes was torn to pieces in his bed,
and Johnson shot it twice before he died,
to no effect. To hunt it's suicide,
and we'd all sooner be cowards than dead.

I saw it once: the moon was high and bright,
and there it crouched, gnawing on Bert Simm's bull--
its white fur stiff with blood, eyes gray and dull,
and eight feet tall when standing at its height.

A wild man, stink ape, demon--pick your worst.
But I won't be here next time the rainclouds burst.

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