The Hunt Within

James Baker Hall

JAMES B. HALL

THE HUNT WITHIN

       That hill
Is humped raising its weight
   Of snows towards the sun
That burns away the high fog and dawn
       Of a new mid-winter

       And the scrub pine
Bristles on that hill's back
   Like hackles, while the hound
Digs memory's root of fox dead
       Or bone forgotten.

       Now the picket
Crow calls black and clarion
   Through these encircling woods
And the last dry berry of summer trembles
       And drops in moss

       While my dog
Grovels the hillock's bluest snow
   Whimpering from his forepaw's
Slit tenderness. Now this gun's
       Full-primed and

       Eager shells
Ram home to their steel chamber
   And I want to see

A man crouched or through briars running,
       To shoot him dead,

       Like any game.
Therefore I hunt through sumacs
   On the dirty little footprints
Of revenge, and maim even the snipe's
       Slack-wing flutter,

       Explode the Squirrel's
Grey brief and chattering hide,
   For vengeance on this land
Burns, Oh Bloody and firm beneath
       This hunting jacket,

       Revenge upon
This souring land that made me.
   Now the hound claws
The entrails of the hill, the whipping briar
       Fires my eye

       And the tear
From the thorn and the wind only
   Makes course through these hackles
On my cheek, snuffling to answer the ancient
       Baying dog, within.
                                     JAMES B. HALL