A chief, wise and watchful, on a hilltop stayed fast.

He cried down to the least of his cubs this behest,

“They’ll pass

by morning, these rare stars I see.

Pup smallest, make haste! Sit beside me!”

At once sprang the prattling to accomplish his quest.

Clawing stones, charging shadows, he pushed without rest.

Aghast

he sat gazing, when at last free to ponder

the heavens drawn nigh in all splendor.

The whelp rallied quickly on his father’s request.

And soon fellow stalkers would name him the best.

“Outlast,”

he’d to all stress, “through distance and chill.

Doubtless, game strongest and swiftest you’ll kill.”

Thus to wit and to wonder, in this sense engaged,

I my brethren plunder, they, in likeness, estranged.

Alas,

it’s for hunger, lest my days it purloin

ere I’m seated for the summons enjoined.

So if by but one leap, I my quarry out-span

or if by but one breath shall my wind his out-blast,

he’s lost.

A stately prance halts in its prime.

As I murmur a dirge, I’ll dine.

For as narrow my lust, when upon my prey cast,

Gray Hunter, thou straightly o’er us both see past.

Unto thee,

I, a hill high of bones, rightly climb.

This dance of death justly is thine.