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The Hunter

Edward S. Sorenson

His body bare, his feet unshod,
Keen-questing over every rod
    Where bough and bramble hang,
He treads the bush his fathers trod
    With spear and boomerang.

With ears alert for every sound,
His sharp eyes roving round and round,
    He roams as dingoes prowl,
And reads the marks on grass and ground
    That tell of beast and fowl.

And like some shadow far behind,
O’er tracks that climb and dip and wind
    His gin walks warily,
Lest she might scare what he might find
    And only he might see.

She gazes ever straight ahead,
Nor worries where her feet may tread,
    Though danger may be near,
Her one concern and only dread
    The hunter with the spear.

She watches as though stalking him,
Responsive to his every whim,
    His stealth or careless slouch,
Anon his manner tense and grim,
    Quick pause and sudden crouch.

She sees his body bend and sway,
And knows the game’s not far away
    Below the hiding hill;
Nor lets her gaze a moment stray
    From where he creeps to kill.

She watches for his one command,
A leg thrust back that bids her stand
    Till he has speared his meat,
And a coo-ee or a lifted hand
    Tells they may rest and eat.

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