Comment on this article

by James Dalton Byrd

The Creator speaks
in the silence of a forest
     and I,
a hunter,
sit still,
     - quiet -
          and listen.

The Creator's voice is carried by the wind
moving through winter-barren trees.
It tells me of the dreams scrabbling
   through the sleeping brains
   of chipmunks and squirrels.
The quick discoveries of lynx and fox
   leap into and out of
      my consciousness.

The hot blood
of bear
      and wolf
            and deer
 runs through that ancient river
   flowing within me.

"As long as you do not chase the quarry
merely to cause pain and fear...
   as long as you do not waste my gifts...
as long as you recognise
   that you
are as much a part of this forest
as the rest of my creations.
   As long as..."
      The voice enters,
         seeps into my heart,
            and reveals me
                              to myself.


First published Georgia Poetry Society annual anthology.



Return to:

[New] [Archives] [Join] [Contact Us] [Poetry in Motion] [Store] [Staff] [Guidelines]